


Dream Awake

by protagonist_m



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blowjobs, Chronological Order Is For Suckers, Famous Harry, Famous Niall, First Love, First Time, Flower Crowns, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Famous Louis, Recreational Drug Use, The Industry Is Evil, Underage Drinking, music festival AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protagonist_m/pseuds/protagonist_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The sun leaks through the tent wall behind him the way it leaks through eyelids, bathing the boy in an ethereal half-light as he croons.</i><br/> <br/><i>The crowd is mesmerized. Louis is mesmerized.</i> This is the most important person in the world,<i> he thinks wildly, and then can't figure out how to take it back.</i><br/><br/><br/>On a hazy day in August, Louis sees Harry perform at a music festival as an unsigned act and convinces him to spend the rest of the weekend in his company. Harry gets signed; life changes. They never really wake up from the dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartbrokenhaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartbrokenhaz/gifts).



> Written for the prompt:
> 
> _When Louis goes to a summer music festival he immediately falls in love with Harry Styles a new indie artist with a love for bananas, floral clothing and small yellow shorts._
> 
>  
> 
> This story flips perspective with the sections labeled _memory_ going in chronological order and the sections labeled _now_ going backwards. Just...just go with it. Enjoy!

_now:_

 

Zipper teeth make a sound too grating for this moment. Too real.

In truth, Harry's come to love the sound of it, the way a bag fastening closed means travel, momentum. Progress. 

Always moving forward, he is.

Now, though. He casts exhausted eyes around the flat, a posh little one bedroom done in modern neutrals and burnt orange accents. Never once has Harry felt this delicate, eyelids bruised with regret, muscles tired and tight. Never once. Even the filmy curtains, swayed by a mild Los Angeles breeze, have the potential to tear through his skin.

He remembers to close the window on the way out, barely. The notion of returning to this place is daunting and unimaginable. He's not looking to leave any loose ends. The act of doubling back from the door means he has a moment to sweep his eyes around the flat and feel that insistent bitterness that plagues his life here. Burnt orange on his tongue. 

Harry swallows against the taste he can't bring himself to label  _regret._ Heopens the door. 

Blood throbs through his veins painfully. The color of the early morning sky is a reminder of where he should be.

Somewhere far from here, flowers grow.

 

 

_a memory:_

 

" _Zaaaaaaayn_!" Louis calls, managing to slur the simple syllable. "You dickhead, where  _are_  you?"

Louis isn't one for pessimism. He favors foolhardy hope and roundabout luck to carry him, really, but he's got this suspicion that  _Zayn where are you where are you Zayn_ is going to be this weekend's unofficial motto. They've been at the festival grounds for not-quite-five hours and he's already lost the boy twice. 

The first time, he turned up near the block of porta-toilets on the opposite end of the campsite from their tent. Only Louis's already checked there and, unless the toilet at the end of the line emitting bright lights and techno beats from the vents at the top also contains his best mate, he's elsewhere.

Elsewhere has so far proven not to be the main acts stage, nor the supporting acts stage, nor the row of rickety and dubious food carts. They emit odors of varying appeal that here, on day one of the festival, are still able to overpower the stink of weed and festival-goers.

Louis downs the last of his beer and tosses the bottle into a massive bin pushed off to the side of a taco truck. It makes it in, but only barely; Louis is being nudged hard in the shoulder by a group of girls in flannel shirts tied up at their pale stomachs. Probably it wouldn't make him wobble so intensely ( _Weebles_ , his swimmy brain supplies) if he wasn't already disoriented by beer and general festival atmosphere.

First days are like this, always: swarms of people with energy that either dwindles or finds pharmaceutical means to persist, the smell of herb and campfire smoke (and ozone, weirdly, near the stages) thick in the air from the first minute, hard ground that's soggy in places from spilled beer and piss and rain, someone screaming off to your right, several someone’s singing terribly to your left, anticipation on everyone’s tongue. A whirlwind of noise and humanity, a fever dream for the young and young at heart. 

It's the same chorus regardless of verse. Louis and Zayn have been attending things like this since they met—can actually count a music fest as their first official bro date, uproarious as that whole mess was—so it's no longer surprising when they get separated. 

They just usually get to do more than set up their tent and see a single act on their list before it happens, Louis thinks, fuzzy and resentful.

He weaves his way through a crush of bodies waiting for—something, possibly food, possibly a vendor—to a giant poster that's been hung up showing the layout of the venue and the various stages. Fringe floppy and disobedient after a day of summer heat, Louis flicks it out of his eyes as he squints at the map, trying to remember which direction north is.

He's almost got it figured when the sound of a velcro tent flap ripping open pricks his ears enough to notice a strain of melody.

It's—it's  _clear_ , like honey, soothing like a damp cloth held to feverish skin. It resonates like the press of a single strip of ivory on a piano, ringing through Louis. Like familiarity, but a bit like magic, too.

It's someone's voice. Louis gives chase.

The tent is blessedly cool, a massive fan blasting frigid air from where it's hooked to a portable generator, and it's helped along by the size of the tent itself. Or lack thereof. It's fit to host maybe fifty people, just a snippet of the festival's trundling crowd.

If the intention is to house fifty, though, it's a failed venture. Louis feels his eyes widen as he takes in the packed crowd, nearly double the standard capacity, easy. Aren’t there _rules_ about this?

Probably they're here for that voice too, then, which pours from speakers on either side of a wooden stage with a banner reading  _Independent Artists_  hanging above it.

Most of this Louis is aware of without fully realizing. Largely, this is the alcohol flooding his system, but it's also because he's just realized the source of all light in the universe is standing on the pillbox of a stage, belting its heart out.

Honey voice and dark curls to his temples and shorts the color of the sun, small enough to be nearly obscene except for how  _sensical_  they are in this setting, on this pale waif of an impossible boy, lanky and reed-thin and not grown into himself yet, obvious even at a distance. Lips like a peace lily's pout, maybe, if Louis is remembering what a peace lily is correctly. Face scrunched tight in concentration with a furrow of strong brows over eyes squeezed tight, voice straining into a mic that's grasped in oversized hands. The sun leaks through the tent wall behind him the way it leaks through eyelids, bathing the boy in an ethereal half-light as he croons.

The crowd is mesmerized. Louis is mesmerized.  _This is the most important person in the world,_ he thinks wildly, and then can't figure out how to take it back.

Some people are jostling to the music, a series of kicky tunes that always keep one velvety, lilting run above a garage band's anthem. There's a band attached to the boy, Louis dazedly processes, but there's something about the way they hold themselves that convinces him they're not in this the way the singer is. They're not living for it, feeding off the crowd's attention.

They aren't born for it like he is.

When the set finishes it's to thunderous applause and ragged, drunken cheers. Louis is elbowing past other festival-goers before the boy's even descended the stage to make room for two neon-haired girls with an ominous percussion setup. 

It seems important, that he reach him first.

As luck would have it, Louis ends up crammed against the wall by the jostling crowd mere feet from his objective, who is currently shaking his hair out with those ridiculous, elegant fingers. The boy looks up at the pressing crowd, searching and oddly vulnerable. Louis is...suspended. Just for a moment, and just in the way the fairy lights lining the walls of the tent fuzz out behind him, the way his wide eyes glisten bottle-green as he casts them around, lost. His hair flops with the movement of his head, lips parting in a soft sort of distress.

"Hey!" Louis calls out. "Curly!"

The kid whips his head around, answering easily to the name. Figures.

He finds Louis' eyes. "Uh," he drawls, speaking voice a fair deal deeper than how he sings, "hullo?" He's speaking over the crowd and the feedback static of the next act tuning up (however that works with singular percussion kits) but it's still mellow and unhurried. Like honey.

"Gonna—gonna get pancaked into the wall if you're not careful," Louis cautions him. He taps in the air toward the entrance flap. "C'mon."

"Oh," says the boys, but it's all he says before he pushes forward and huddles close enough to Louis that he can feel his body heat all the way out of the tent.

They fight their way through the mulling crowd and exit to the heat and noise of the main festival. At least there's room to move.

"Oh thank god," Louis gasps. "Thought I was going to die in there."

"Wasn't  _that_  bad, was it?" the boy drawls, but he doesn't seem worried.

Louis whips around to face him. "You know it wasn't."

The kid shrugs. In an act of subtle warfare, he smiles to reveal a dimple. "People seemed to like it enough."

"You're—" Louis is interrupted by a group weaving their way directly through where they stand talking, which, okay, they  _are_  kind of in a major thoroughfare. He makes the decision to lay presumptuous hands on the boy's shoulders and pull them off to the side of the beaten-down grass path. The boy allows it, placid if not a little bemused. "You're quite good, actually."

The dimple deepens. "Thank you."

It's probably the technical end of the conversation, if Louis allows it. Louis will absolutely not allow it. "You're going to be big. I can tell," he confides, and for all that it’s a line it also feels like the truth, ringing like the boy’s voice did minutes ago. An invocation. Magic.

Arched eyebrows and bottle green eyes which, in this hazy afternoon light, Louis can see are set in circles of darker jade. "And you're dressed  _very_ unusually for a talent scout."

"I'm not—” Louis pulls at the restrictive collar of his shirt. "That's not. What I am."

"Shame," says Curly, cocky and sweet all at once, "we could've had a really good conversation."

And that—that's  _banter_ , isn't it. That's flirting. Isn't it? Louis needs water. 

Except then the boy says, in a tone far too serious, "I actually. Like. I actually am supposed to help pack up stuff with the band." 

"Let me get a picture," Louis blurts out. 

The boy tilts his head very slightly, mouth parting a bit. "Um. Okay." A beat. "Of...?"

This miracle person is maybe an idiot. "Wha—of  _you_ , Curly. Gonna be proper famous one day, yeah?" Louis shrugs, keeping his eyes wide and sincere. "I want the first picture."

Blossoming on the boy's face is an ecstatic sort of comprehension. "I can—sure, let's," he mumbles.

Louis doesn’t giggle, mercifully. "Get over here, then," he demands with a loose grin, arm wrapping around the boy's shoulders and pulling him in. He fumbles for his mobile. "Say marigold!"

"Marigold!" he parrots gamely, "wait, why marigo—"

The camera clicks. On the display, the boy is looking at the camera with owlish eyes, mouth shaped to an ‘o’. To his right is Louis, grin white against his summer tan, eyes squinty with his smile. Their heads are pressed together.

"Perfect," Louis decides. The boy nods, head still touching his. "Thanks so much."

The boy pulls away enough that he can turn to face Louis, but not enough to shake his arm off. "Harry," he says.

Oh. It hadn't occurred to Louis they had been stumbling through this interaction without names ever being exchanged--it had seemed a foregone inquiry, pointless for how little it affected the easy familiarity. 

Still though.  _Harry_.

"Louis," he replies, tone a little trembling and disconcertingly bashful. "I'm Louis."

Harry smiles at him from where he's still under his arm. "Cool to meet you, Louis." He begins to pull away.

"What—" Louis is the worst. If someone pulled this with one of his sisters he'd have their head. Yet there's an inescapable impulse to keep this boy—Harry—close, something tugging behind his navel. "Um. Harry," he begins again, conjuring a beatific smile. He's Louis fucking Tomlinson. He can keep it together through a conversation with a boy, even if that boy is like a magnet designed specifically to pull at Louis’ blood and bones. "What're you doing after this?"

Pursing his lips, Harry takes him in. The pause grows long enough that Louis feels the first inklings of embarrassment.

It only gets worse when he finally speaks. "You seem really cool," Harry says slowly, methodically, clover honey dripping from his lips, "but I'm not..." He huffs a laugh, cheeks pinking. When Louis looks down, he sees his long fingers are knotting together. "It's so cliché, but like, I'm kind of trying to focus on my music right now? Is that..." Louis is obsessed with the way he pulls at his lip with his fingers. "I hope that makes sense and doesn’t seem like a lame copout,” he finishes finally, “because it’s true, and. Otherwise, I would.”

Louis considers it. "So you  _don't_  have plans for today," he surmises.

Harry laughs, a cackle like lush nettle. "Is  _that_  what you got from that?" 

The percussionist duo from the Indie Acts tent can be heard when someone stumbles out into the day. They're not bad, really. Harry's in good company.

"Not asking you to follow me to the ends of the earth, Harry," Louis says, softer. He parts his lips slightly and runs his tongue along the ridge of his front teeth, gratified by Harry's eyes rapt on the action. "Just asking if a future rock star wants to hang out with me and my mate Zayn for a couple hours."

Someone passes by with a pole streaming ribbons. Louis watches the reflection of them in Harry's eyes, the quick dappling of light in his irises. He might imagine the pupils contracting as Harry comes to a decision. "I have...a couple hours," he says, cautious. 

Louis is the  _best_. He ignores the urge to fist pump and instead smiles, pleased and scrunch-eyed. "Excellent. Meet you back here after you've—packed stuff up, or whatever?"

"Probably finished without me," Harry admits ruefully. "But I need to…" his cheeks flush anew, the sweetest shade of dawn. “My mum. I should probably. Tell her that I'm running off.”

"Ah." Louis tries to run a quick calculation of Harry's minimum possible age. On the one hand, voice like an engine's morning rasp. Self-assured. Not hopeless at flirting.

On the other hand. Curls and boyish innocence.

But it’s immaterial, with the way Harry's dimples show when he grins. "See you in a minute," he says, slinking backwards and into the tent with only a small amount of tripping.

Louis watches him disappear, feels that insistent tugging again. Dizzy and drunk and dehydrated, he's in no place to assume it’s anything but sickness. He simply knows that it isn't. It doesn't feel like nausea. It doesn't feel like wooziness or vertigo or anything especially physical.

Feels a bit like fate, though. 

Maybe that.

 

 

_now:_

 

Harry is going to break something. "I'm  _allowed_  breaks," he grits out. "It’s in the contract that I get breaks, you’ve said so yourself.”

"I have. I have said that," Liam says patiently, "and at no point do I recall mentioning that these breaks could be taken at your discretion."

"I'm the talent!" Harry bellows. "I'm the one with an international tour to perform! I'm the one with a million  _fucking_  interviews next week! I want literally three days at home, most of which will be travel anyway, why the fuck is that such a big  _deal?"_

It takes a lot to get Harry to this level of diva. He has no memory, actually, of ever being this demanding with his assistant manager. 

Love makes people do stranger things, he supposes. Like get famous.

Like want to give it all back.

"You're being graceless," Liam chastises gently, arms folded. It's exactly the right thing to deflate Harry's sails. "I'm not your enemy, Harry."

Harry pulls at the joints of his fingers. "I fucked something up," he admits. "I—I fucked up  _really_ bad, Liam." It doesn’t cover it, not really at all, the catastrophe of Harry’s words, the implosion currently taking place in his ribcage. He hopes Liam knows him well enough by now to sense that.

And while his face  _is_  sympathetic, Liam's tone is level and uncompromising when he says, "You could fuck things up really badly  _here_  by leaving."

It’s then that Harry feels the reality of his situation. The helplessness. He's the  _talent_. His album, his tour, the interviews and promotions--he's  _central_  to them. Singular in a way he's come to realize just means lonely. There’s no one else to tackle the invasive questions and meet the incessant demands, somehow balance being a product and a person at once.

"Please just—move something around?" he pleads softly, hating the disappointment in Liam's dark eyes. "There's no point to any of this without him," he adds. "None at all."

There's a moment where it looks like it might work. Liam opens his mouth, then closes it with a dismayed exhale through his nostrils. "I'm sorry," he says. "The next few days are—I don't have to tell you they're intense. The single, the next leg of the tour..."

Harry's throat burns, astringent urgency coursing through him. "It might be too late by the time I get back," he says, strangled. "He could have  _left me_ by then.  _Liam._ "

Liam says nothing and so says enough to remind Harry: there are larger things at work here. Forces beyond Harry’s control—still only meeting the fingertips of his comprehension. People with ugly souls and assets wide as oceans. A media machine that has never once done anything but beat him back into a closet. Bigger than him. More powerful than him.

Unbeatable and deeply, deeply unsympathetic.

"Go home, Harry," Liam says. Harry looks up from the floor quickly, heart in his throat on a jagged adrenal spike, but the man's eyes are still remorseful.

Home as in here, then. Home as in LA. That's what he means.

"I hate this," Harry spits. "All of this."

Liam nods. He’s tired, Harry supposes, end of a long work week busting his arse managing interviews and promo gigs for the least grateful person on the planet. “I understand,” he says. His tie’s already undone—Harry had accosted him on his way out the office door--and he fiddles with it anyway.

The night is cooling off around them, but it’s still warm enough to be uncomfortable. Harry refuses to transition from increasingly skinny jeans to shorts still. It’s one of several affectations he’s stubbornly refused to let his stylists talk him out of. Contrariness is often the only power he has, he finds.

Someone honks long and unnecessary as they pass the office tower. Harry flinches and Liam doesn’t and it’s the most infuriating thing in the world.

“You don’t,” Harry retorts, sour. “You don’t understand. And that’s fine, Liam, but you don’t  _care,_ and I think that’s an actual problem.”

Hurt registers on Liam’s strong features for a moment, pinpricks to his skin revealing someone Harry actually considers a friend underneath. “Don’t say that, Haz,” Liam murmurs. “If I could—”

“You  _can,_ ” Harry insists in a timbre that rumbles like warning thunder. He turns on his heel and marches to his car, fumbling out the keys from his pocket as he goes.

The air in the car smells plasticky and new when it blows through the vents. Nauseating. Harry drives in silence, terrified of what song might play on KCRW that could send tears tumbling down his cheeks. The raw quality of his regret is close enough to the surface for it to be anything at all.

He feels wounded and maimed, heart beating unevenly as he pulls into his oversized garage and kills the engine. Mostly, he feels like a colossal idiot, embarrassing himself in front of Liam with his desperate pleas for something he signed away, along with everything else that mattered, nearly two years ago. Saying things he didn’t mean. Saying them to  _Louis._

Fuck. He stumbles into the house half-blind with misery and sinks onto his overpriced sofa in moments, head in his hands. He’s going to lose his boy.

He doesn’t deserve the release of crying about it, so he doesn’t. Instead, he pours some scotch and settles into watching the city through his plate glass windows and wondering if this is what he wanted.

The answering  _no_ always sounds like someone else’s voice.

It’s nearly midnight when his phone chirps. No one’s texted or called all day besides people he works with, which makes sense since he’d stopped giving out the new number after last time, and the cheerful tone makes him jump. He’s heavy-limbed with liquor and sadness, a punishing combination, and the alert swims in front of his eyes.

It’s an e-mail, he processes finally. An e-mail from Liam.

The subject is left blank, and the e-mail itself is short.

_I won’t say you owe me because you know that already. You’re not dumb, just a twat._

_(Good luck.) - Li_

Attached is his itinerary for the week. It’s left blank through Thursday, with two exceptions: a flight out of LAX to Heathrow and a flight back in.

Harry is packed before he’s sober.

 

 

_a memory:_

Harry steps back out of the Indie Acts tent after both a million years and several measly seconds. There’s a rabbity sort of a excitement in Louis’ sternum urging him to hide behind something (the robust man with the Zeppelin shirt is looking likely) and simply watch Harry, observe his glowing existence without disruption.

That whole notion rings suspiciously of insanity, though, and Louis’ fairly sure he’s too tactile for it anyway. His hands seem to think so, fingers on the small of Harry’s back as soon as he’s in touching distance. He can feel the slight dampness of sweat there under the white cotton.

They weave through the crowds with vague chatter. Mostly, it’s about which acts they each want to see over the weekend and the ones they’ve seen so far, but occasionally it’s Louis working a specific type of espionage.

“So this is your first major festival?” he asks.

“First, yeah,” Harry answers immediately, a little shy about it. “First attended, actually,” he adds quietly.

Louis still catches it, tucks the shy admission away in some growing pocket of fondness for the boy. He smiles when he follows up with, “That must have felt pretty amazing then, to get picked up to play here.”

There’s this thing Louis does— _can_ do—that might be called manipulation which he thinks of more as insurance. It’s not cruel, but it  _is_ calculated, and it works so well he sometimes feels a little bad about it after.

It’s essentially this: likely as a result of growing up slight and effeminate and athletic and rather popular all at once, Louis has a keen social survival instinct. Somehow it’s extended even to interactions with fit boys, wrapping like ivy around their deepest fears and passions, the meat of their hearts, so that when they see him, they see a piece of themselves. Something worth protecting. Something worth abiding by.

Something worth wanting.

It’s maybe not fair, to take like that when he hasn’t even sold  _himself_ on the idea of spending a night (or a week, or a semester) with them. He’s never found it in himself to regret it.

With Harry, he doubts he could.

“It was incredible,” Harry says while his grin spreads. Louis faintly realizes that somewhere, petals are turning to face this newer, brighter source of light. “It was like—it’s all happening, you know? Not that this’ll necessarily lead to anything bigger,” he adds quickly, a reprimand to himself, “but. It’s a foot in the door. People— _scouts_ come to these things, so. The chance is at least  _there._ ”

Careful navigation around a swarm of people at some energy drink-sponsored giveaway brings them back to the campgrounds. People have begun to sprawl in the grass outside their plots, high or buzzed or just knackered, and Harry allows Louis to guide him through the maze of bodies by the wrist.

Louis is still drunk enough that he’s mostly depending on instinct to get them to his and Zayn’s tent, but it turns out he needn’t have worried.

“ _There_ you are, you bastard!” he calls to the boy splayed lazily in the grass. Absurdly, he has soft pink flowers woven like a tiara into his hair and more in his hands. He looks up, hazily startled.

There’s a moment where Louis has to wonder, has to calculate the odds that Harry and Zayn will click and get along as well as he hopes they will. It’d be wicked, his best mate and his best discovery ever, probably, making each other laugh and chatting like friends do. It’s a balance, though; he has to hope that they won’t click  _too_ well, and he won’t find himself unwittingly needing to make other accommodations tonight.

Brilliantly, “Pink is a good color for you,” are the first words out of Harry’s mouth, and Louis’ worries that the pair will either fight or fuck melt like candy floss on his tongue. Zayn’s expression settles into a warm, mellow grin, eyes shiny and huge and easily charmed by this disarming, lanky boy.

“Yellow’s working for you,” Zayn replies, indicating Harry’s shorts with no heated interest behind the remark. “Here, you can have this next one.” He pats the grass beside him. “Who’s your friend, Lou? He’s cooler than you, by the way.”

“You know usually I’d take offense,” Louis notes as they settle on the ground, Harry hesitantly folding himself down between him and Zayn, “but I found him performing in the Indie tent, so like. You’re not wrong.”

“’M right here,” Harry mumbles, ducking his head as his smile threatens to consume his face. Oh, Louis is gonna need more of  _that._

“Is that where you've been for the last forever, then?” Zayn asks, leaning around Harry to catch Louis’ eye.

“Where  _I’ve_ been?” Louis places a hand on Harry’s knee in acknowledgment of his small, entertained laugh. “I looked for you for  _eight million years,_ you fuck. Where were  _you?_ ”

“Well first, eight million years in this case means twenty minutes, so do shut up,” Zayn says, fingers tying stems to stems, “and second, I was buying these,” he tosses his head, crown of tiny pink buds listing dangerously atop his dark hair. Harry reaches up and fixes it, familiar as anything and so prim about it that Louis’ chest warms, “which are awesome. No regrets.”

“Can mine have these, too?” Harry asks, pointing to the bunch of little blue flowers on dusky stems by Zayn’s knee.

Zayn grunts an affirmative, pulling a few from the bundle held together with a rubber band. He weaves them in throughout the pink blooms that match his own. As Zayn fastens the delicate ends together, Louis searches for the crisps he’d had in his weekend bag and crows when he finds them.

Zayn drapes the flower crown on Harry’s head, mindful of its fragility and tucking it in among the curls. “There,” he sighs happily.

Harry is beaming. “Cheers,” he says, sincere, and leans toward Louis. “How’s it look?”

It looks like someone needs to buy the boy a proper crown already. It looks like the prettiest person Louis’s ever seen with literal, actual flowers in his hair. It looks like some kind of really good dream, and Louis refuses to open his eyes.

“Turning into a proper festival girl,” is all he says, brandishing the crisps bag. “Prettier, though. How do you feel about salt and vinegar?”

 

 

The three of them end up wandering to the biggest stage at dusk, Louis insistently pushing into the crowd until they’re close enough to feel the heat from the sound equipment after a long day.

“Heard these guys are wicked live,” Harry says over the crowd. “Been wanting to see them for ages.”

“How does it feel, having played the same fest as them?” Louis eggs. From the corner of his vision he can see Zayn’s eyes flash with amusement, clearly aware of what Louis’ doing.

Harry shakes his head. “Not even the same league, no point making a comparison like that.”

“Whoa now, who said anything about comparisons?” Louis holds his hands out innocently. “’S just a fact, Curly.” A promising curve plays at the ends of Harry’s mouth, and, well, Louis is already sort of addicted to making him smile. “They play, and people come and watch. You play, and people come and watch,” he prods at Harry’s side until he gives up the stoic routine and giggles. Maybe he means to push Louis’ hand away, but it just ends up clasped with his for a long second before it drops. “And at the same event.” He leans in close enough to feel Harry’s body heat, somehow discernable from the heat of the crowd that presses around them. “It’s proper impressive, is all. It’s very cool.”

Harry’s eyes are dark as he opens his lush mouth.

“Oi, they’re on,” Zayn loudly alerts them. A good thing, too, because Louis had temporarily forgotten things like where they are and what his name is.

“Sweet,” Harry says, smirking slightly as he pulls away. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Zayn, he claps and cheers as the band takes the stage, noise swelling around them.

It’s a delirious set, all movement and good, throbbing sound with only stage lights and glow sticks and the lit ends of joints to provide light.

Louis keeps Harry in his line of vision the whole time, moving to the coercive beat and singing along when he can. There are points where him and Zayn and Harry are all singing to each other, pointing dramatically and pulling faces as they feel the music like their own marrow, like truth.

The band cools down with a slower number that Louis isn’t familiar with. He suspects it might be a cover. It doesn’t matter much  _what_ it is when he sees the way Harry sways to it, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, flowers tenacious and rumpled and beautiful amid his sweat-mussed curls.

“Don’t be a twat,  _go,_ ” Zayn mutters directly into Louis’ ear. He pushes him into the narrow space Harry’s carved out for himself in the crowd.

The boy’s eyes flutter back open, lazy like a sun-drugged butterfly’s takeoff. “Hi,” he murmurs, uneven light dancing over his sweat-shimmering skin.

Louis’s opening his mouth when someone who smells like a brewery knocks into him from behind. He pitches forward and directly into Harry, who catches him on reflex with a small grunt.

“Oops. Well  _that’s_ a bit cliché,” Louis mutters to the universe at large, but he slips his arms around Harry’s back nonetheless. After a moment of obvious, nerve-wracking thought, Harry’s own arms settle up and over his shoulders, clasping behind his neck, and then they’re swaying together.

Harry really is so beautiful. Louis’s been thinking about it all evening, the way light seems to fold and bend according to Harry’s angles, the dip of his throat, the line of his shin. The way it pours itself inside him, too, skewing his moments of dry sarcasm warm, making his laugh a form of sustenance and his moments of thought before speech rich enough to raise meadows in.

He’s something important. Louis can’t decide even now, wrapped up in his arms with his luminous gaze a welcome weight on his own, just what  _kind_ of important Harry is. Important to the world, maybe. Someone who’s going to  _be_ someone.

There are other kinds of significant, though, and while Louis has no doubt that Harry is going to get picked up by a label if he continues on this way, he wonders what those might be.

He wonders quietly, so as not to rouse his own insistent hope, if they might involve him.

It’s half a verse and a chorus later that either of them says anything.

“I meant it,” Harry says vaguely.

Louis brows raise. “That’s good,” he offers, “meant what?”

“When I said I’m trying to focus on music,” Harry elaborates. “On getting picked up by an agent or a label or something.”

Disappointment glimmers dully, a bad coin. “Okay,” Louis says, trying for unbothered and landing somewhere near despondent.

And Harry  _smiles,_ the wanker. “But I’m planning on coming back tomorrow,” he says. “And. Maybe in between all that  _intense_ networking,” he drags the last two words over the pout of his lower lip. Louis wants to bite the plush of it. “We could meet up. If you were down to hang again, I mean.”

There is nothing Louis has ever been more down for in his life. “Stay with us tonight,” he blurts.

The song finishes to thunderous applause which registers only as white noise. Louis is too busy replaying his own words. Harry is blinking, eyes wide and lips parted in shock.

“Um, because we’re camping here already—which you knew, and—it’d be easier than driving  _all the way_ back here, and. Uh. There’s room! And like, it’d save…transportation…fuck it, I’m sorry, that was way too—”

“I want to,” Harry cuts across. “I, yeah. Sure.”

Louis’ stomach lurches pleasantly. “Yeah?”

Harry nods. “Totally. I was gonna have to, like, hitch a ride back to the hotel anyway—”

Without his permission, Louis finds his arms tightening around Harry’s waist. “Because Zayn and I were gonna let you do that,” he says, fully sardonic.

But Harry only grins. “Well it doesn’t matter now, does it?” he asks. His hands fall from Louis’ shoulders so he can fish his mobile out of his little yellow shorts. “Texting my mum and explaining,” he narrates.

“How old are you, anyway?” Louis asks. His face pales. “Not that—”

“Seventeen,” Harry says, smile mocking like maybe he gets that question a lot. “Though why that would matter is beyond me,” he tacks on with a shake of his head that plays at being confused. His smirk sort of ruins the effect.

“Wanted to know if we’d be able to go to the beer tent later,” Louis says. It’s not  _technically_ a lie. “I’m only nineteen, meself.”

Harry tucks his mobile away. “You in uni?”

“Heading into my second year,” Louis confirms. “Wanna teach drama, working on the  _drama_ end of it right now. This one,” he says, groping for Zayn and hauling him into their conversation as he bops along to the fillers music they play between sets, “is doing English. We met in a required sciences course.”

“ _Limits of Life,_ ” Zayn recalls, wrinkling his nose. While Harry’s flower crown has stayed miraculously intact, Zayn’s is gone save for a single wilting blossom above his left ear. “Like if biology class had a baby with a sleeping pill. God, that was boring.”

“We learned about mitochondria,” Louis informs Harry solemnly.

They begin working back through the crowd, always an easier trip than the push to the front. Harry loops two fingers through Louis’ belt loop to stay attached to their group. “I hear that’s the powerhouse of the cell!” he calls over the din of the next set beginning and the shrieks it elicits from a nearby cluster of people.

“How does everyone seem to know that? To  _only_ know that?” Zayn wonders aloud. “How is  _that_ the thing we all retained from school?”

It’s easy conversation and occasional fleeting presses of his fingers to Harry’s side all the way back to the campsite.

 

 

_now:_

Magazine journalists like to do these interviews in cafés. Harry isn’t opposed to a good light lunch, but he does sort of mourn for originality. Ellen Page did an interview at a bowling alley a couple months ago. What does he need to be doing for  _those_ opportunities?

Still, the magazine in question is a little edgier than Harry’s normal fare and, with any luck, the questions will at least be above the standard ‘who are you dating,’ ‘what color are your underwear.’

He gets there early, ushered in through a back entrance and brought to a table on the second floor veranda where seating has been limited. His bodyguard stands watch, silent save for when he solemnly shoos a pigeon away from the table by the balcony’s edge.

Harry stares out over the streets of LA, cars blinding when they catch the sun. Everything here is so shiny. He wonders where people find the time to make their lives sparkle so brightly, then remembers they all probably have people for that.

 _He_ has people for that.

The interviewer announces herself with a loud “Hell- _oooo,_ ” and chatters as they order in an attempt to bring Harry’s guard down.

It doesn’t work, mostly because she’s relying on flirting pretty heavily to achieve it. Sloppy. A bad read, as well. Louis could probably do it, in her position, bring his guard down and get the best possible answers out of him.

Thinking about Louis makes his heart squeeze so painfully he can't breathe, though, so Harry goes back to plasticine sincerity and nodding along. He's gotten so good at it.

The audio recorder she’s brought is an industry standard, small enough to sit off to the sides of their plates (Harry opted for a brie and ham panini with a smear of fig in it which is proving to be jaw-achingly good, terrible mood aside) and remain unobtrusive while she probes him for information on his life.

“Probably a few things you miss from home, though,” she’s saying, and it’s the truest thing she’s said all day.

“A few,” Harry offers. “Yeah.”

“What might those be?” she pushes.

“I have this—friend,” he answers, picking words carefully with the blacklist of words and topics for the interview well in mind, “and he’s like…the messiest person I know, probably.”

The interviewer only nods encouragingly. Smart enough not to bulldoze over the one instance of honesty she’s seen from Harry all lunch, then, which puts her several steps above a lot of her peers.

“When I’m home, I…end up over at his place a lot,” Harry says, blurring truth. “And I sort of end up picking up after him.”

“That’s rather generous of you,” the interviewer remarks around a bite of her Greek salad.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Harry continues. “I sort of. Like it.”

The interviewer smiles warmly. “Bit of a clean freak, are we?”

That’s not it at all, but the explanation of  _I love taking care of him because he himself is my home_ can’t go on record. After the way things were left this morning, Harry’s not sure he could say it without breaking down anyway.

Now  _that_ would make for a messy article.

“The routine soothes me,” Harry settles on, glib and easy, accompanied by a sparkly smile.

Which brings up a round of questions about his workout routine and the energy needed to hop around on stage every night. All these are answered on autopilot, Harry thousands of miles away.

It had been such a dumb fight, too. Louis had called at stupid o’clock in the morning from Manchester to wish Harry as good day, as per usual, only Harry had still been so annoyed and cagey from his morning talk with the PR guy about using more female pronouns to describe love interests that he’d ended up snapping at his sleepy, perfect, loving boyfriend. They’d somehow gotten into the latest trash in the tabloids about Harry clubbing, making digs at each other and escalating it until Harry had said some vile shit, just some nasty, horrendously untrue stuff. Louis had hung up, leaving Harry with regret in the back of his throat for the rest of the day and internal bleeding he doesn't have time to do anything for.

They’ve been fighting more, the length of Harry’s time in the LA studio dragging out and out and eating up his only slice of free time this spring as his management team keeps trying to hone the image they want for his second album. Even Liam isn’t able to squeeze in a breather right now, not with the next leg of the tour looming and the last single for his album planned.

The bitch of it is that he wants to be excited for these things. The single is actually something he thinks deserves radio play, and performing is hands down his favorite part of the job. The next album is by and large his own material, cohesive and real in a way the label refused to allow his debut to be in their relentless quest to capture the 18-25 set.

It’s all ashes in his fists if Louis isn’t here to enjoy it with him. When he'd been offered the record deal, Louis had sprayed him down with champagne and then licked it all off, murmuring praise and adoration and love with each lathe of tongue.

After the last few weeks—strained because of the constant separation, and Harry’s touring, and all the paparazzi photos of him with ‘mystery brunettes’ appearing online (he wonders, sometimes, if he should be remembering the names of the girls whose hands he’s contractually obligated to hold for the cameras), and Louis’ final exams running him ragged—and after their fight this morning, he’ll be lucky if he gets a  _congratulations_ text for the single, probably.

He'd be grateful even for that, with how he's been behaving.

The interview finishes with a smile and an enthusiastic handshake from the woman, her recording device slipped neatly into her purse. “Lovely catching up with you, Harry. Really,” she says. Now that she’s not  _on,_ there’s something more appealing about her. Maybe a weariness Harry recognizes in himself.

“Hey, it was fun,” he answers, genial as ever. “Interesting questions, too, which helped.” Not so boring he wanted to die, anyway, as is often the case.

The woman bites at her lip where she has yet to reapply her lipstick post-meal. “I…hope you get a chance to, uh,” she shrugs a shoulder, blouse fluttering a bit in the balcony’s breeze, “see your friend, soon. You must miss him a lot.”

It’s a reminder of where they are. Though it’s benched in friendlier terms by his PR team, Harry knows the simple label for it.  _Closeted_. He’s in the closet here, in this land of…how did that rapper put it?  _Milk and self-hate._

Not exactly a well-kept secret in the industry though, his sexuality, not with the coat hanger tattoo freshly emblazoned onto his skin and the less-than-subtle innuendos. The goofy grin he feels emerge whenever he talks about Louis.

Usually, anyway. “I do,” he answers, careful in his bruised, heavy speech. “It’s…quite a bit of distance.”

She nods sympathetically, eyes a bit less animated than when she was interviewing. “I had a girlfriend in Antwerp for a while,” she says quietly.

Harry’s spine zings. “Is this on-record?” he checks, gaze shifting around.

Shaking her head, she continues with a smile that can’t decide if it’s sly or rueful. “Not even talking about you, Styles, check that ego.”

Smiling despite himself, Harry wonders where  _this_ woman was not ten minutes ago. They’re all playing roles here, he supposes. The wide-eyed, rising star. The bubbly, effervescent interviewer. How hateful that is.

“So I had this girl, and she…” she shakes her head. “Ah, she  _really_ didn’t want to move here. But I’d just gotten this job, y’know, was finally  _making it…_ or whatever. Refused to give it up. Always so stubborn,” she mutters, eyes distant. Harry’s heart pangs. “But I loved her. So we tried. Skype calls, jillion-hour flights, all that.”

It’s clear how the tale ends. The woman— _Heather_ , Harry’s brain supplies, linking the name not with her face and cheery interview persona but with her personhood, the story she shares—shrugs again, eyes intent on Harry’s. “Not to be preachy, but. If I could do it over…”

“You’d choose the girl,” Harry finishes softly.

She stares up at him with regret that will never see the light of the California sun. “I’d work harder to have both,” she says, quiet under the music on the patio. “Goals are important.  _Dreams_ are important.” She shoulders her bag, something bright and trendy, and checks her phone. “So’s having someone to wake up to. All I’m saying.”

Harry snorts, a little. “Oh, is that all. No wonder you write.”

“Use it in your next song,” she retorts, smiling a little as she starts heading toward the stairs. “Once again, lovely to meet you.”

“You as well. And—” Harry gnaws at his lip a little when she pauses. “Uh. Thanks for sharing a bit. Off-record.”

Heather actually winks, all affected Hollywood glamour, but it works. “Do well and be well, kid.”

And she’s gone.

Harry’s herded back into the car and driven down the manicured boulevards to his place, trudging inside and slumping into a chair at the spacious kitchen’s island counter. He grabs a green juice from the mini-fridge tucked underneath, sipping at it as he stares out his pristine windows and thinks.

_I’d work harder to have both._

It feels like there's a solution in those words. He wonders what's keeping him from seeing it.

 

 

_a memory:_

 

“Home sweet home,” Louis sighs happily, nuzzling at the side of the tent to make Harry laugh.

Which he does, wide-mouthed and eyes nearly shut, a bark of laughter that has Louis laughing along.

“You ever smoke, Harry?” Zayn is asking, arse sticking out of the tent while he rummages through his bag.

“Y…eah, like. A little,” Harry says, tentative.

Louis jumps on it. “No pressure, mate. Zayn, stop pressuring him. God, you’re a bad influence.”

“It’s  _your_ weed,” Zayn says, incredulous. He turns to Harry. “Seriously though, no pressure. We don’t even have to if you’d rather not.”

“No, it’s cool.” Harry shuffles so his legs are splayed at odd angles in front of him, hands in his lap. “Seems right. Festival and all.”

Louis is hyper-aware now, though, doesn’t want to do anything to compromise the way Harry looks at him like he came up with the notion of starlight. “Do you have any, like, performing tomorrow? Don’t wanna fuck up your throat.”

With a softly smile, Harry shakes his head. “Nothing tomorrow. I’m good.”

“So you sing?” Zayn asks, sparking a joint and taking an impressive drag before passing it counter-clockwise to Louis. Louis inhales the hot smoke, feels its dry, heady burn in his esophagus as Harry talks.

“I do, yeah. I have this little band,” he says. “White Eskimo.”

Louis snorts.  _Little band._ Freakishly modest, this one. “The lads who were playing with you?” he asks, thinking of the way Harry’s own radiant light seemed to reflect dimly off his backing band like sun on a dirty mirror.

Harry nods around his lungful of smoke. He holds it well; Louis’s impressed.

“Think they’re gonna want to sign on to something bigger with you?” Louis asks. It’s not a fair question, not when those boys are likely Harry’s friends, people he feels affinity and loyalty towards, but it’s nagging at his brain anyway. He takes the joint when Zayn offers it after his second hit.

“ _If_ we get an offer,” Harry says, voice even slower as the weed makes it presence known in his blown-out gaze, “probably, like. Probably they will.”

“Do you really think that?” Louis doesn’t understand why he’s pressing so hard. His head it too pleasantly swimmy to analyze his own intentions, though.

Harry’s expression is thoughtful in the low light of surrounding lanterns. He takes the joint when Louis offers but doesn’t smoke it immediately, mulling the question over. “No,” he answers finally. “They’re not in it the way I am, I don’t think. There’s a—disconnect, or something. They don’t see a future in it, even after booking this gig. It’s just, like, a lark for them.”

Zayn has the busiest fingers when he gets properly high, tying box knots from a tuft of long grass he’d found behind him. He says, “But it’s something else for you,” and it’s not a question.

Harry’s got a mouthful of pungent smoke that he lets pour off his lips, heavy. “It’s everything for me,” he answers, so honest it sears.

Louis can only take the raw yearning in Harry’s voice for a moment before he changes the subject. People aren’t meant to stare at the sun, after all. “Zayn sings. ‘S proper angelic, actually.”

And while Zayn’s scowl is a nearly audible thing, Harry’s face lights up. “Do you perform ever? What sort of music do you like?”

The two chat wanderingly about music, Zayn extolling the virtues of 90’s top forty, Harry intentionally misremembering artist names to agitate him (“What was that bird’s name, Brady? Bambi?” “I  _loved_ Salt ‘n’ Suga—stop hitting me.”) while Louis watches the few stars that push through the glare of the stage lights down the way. At some point his head migrates to Harry’s lap. Before he can start to worry about it, Harry’s fingers are carding through his hair, mussing the short strands.

It’s a floaty space, separate from the noise of the festival on its first rowdy night, a galaxy for three.

Well. With the exception of the bird sitting pressed up against Zayn. “Hello?” the boy says, skeptical of the girl’s sudden appearance and intentions.

She seems harmless, spacey and a little fey in her sun dress, soft blonde hair down to nearly her waist and smudged red lipstick on her Cupid ’s bow mouth.

“No no, shh, don’t mind me,” she says, accent American, long finger pressing to the side of Zayn’s face. He rounds his lips in panic at the creature invading his bubble, eyes frantic on Louis.

Harry intervenes before he can. “Hi!” he says brightly. “I’m Harry. Who’re you? Are you lost? Would you like some water?” His water bottle crinkles when he brandishes it toward her, mostly empty.

She nods like this is what she was waiting for, the warm dregs of Harry’s water, and downs it all in one swallow. “My birth name is Taylor,” she says dreamily, crinkling the thin plastic of the spent bottle in a rhythm.

“Nice to meet you, Taylor,” Harry says gamely. Zayn is silently edging away from the girl, shooting Louis surreptitious looks that have him fighting back a laugh.

“I wanted to give you a heads up about your auras,” says Taylor, and oh dear, there goes Louis’ self-control completely. He giggles into Harry’s thigh for a while before he takes in her intense expression and realizes she wasn’t kidding.

“Do go on,” he prompts. “I’m listening. Sorry—I’m listening.” He represses his giggles long enough to nod seriously. Harry flicks him in the shoulder, but Louis can see his smile out of his peripheral.

Taylor’s eyes light up. Louis’ fourteen year old sister would be jealous of her eyeliner, he muses vaguely. Winged, the style is called. He thinks.

“Your aura is deep purple, impassioned dreamer,” she tells Harry. “But when you’re touching him…” she runs a slightly sweaty finger down Louis’ cheek. He’s too stoned to do anything but glare bemusedly. “It turns light, like a lilac.”

“That’s neat,” Harry encourages, seemingly content to be nonplussed.

“What about me, then?” Louis butts in, not liking even the dilated, aimless stare Taylor’s settled on Harry.

She inclines her head to look at him. “You seem kind of dark red. Burgundy. But you go green like an ocean,” she says, “when he’s paying attention to you.”

“Um.” Green like an ocean. Green like Harry’s eyes. Green like what Louis is just high enough to admit he’s been thinking of as infinity.

“Interesting,” Harry murmurs, amused. He looks down at Louis with a gaze that’s one part mocking and two parts intense and green green green like forever might be. “What do you figure  _that’s_ about, Lou?”

“It’s good you found each other,” Taylor says with a slow but perfunctory nod. She stumbles up to her feet, Zayn’s hand hovering near her side in case she pitches forward on her stork legs. “You were looking for a long time.”

“He’s only seventeen,” Louis informs her, ignoring all the other implications, “couldn’t have been looking  _that_ long.”

“Shhh,” she croons again, fairy hair tossing back and forth when she shakes her head. “Just enjoy that your lifetimes finally lined up, restless spirit.”

“ _What—_ ” Louis starts in, but Taylor’s not paying attention, catlike eyes focused in on Zayn. He notices Louis and Harry noticing it, slowly looking up to meet her gaze.

“Wait for the final spoke of the wheel,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“I…alright,” Zayn mumbles, only slightly visibly terrified. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do, shimmering heart,” she says, tone trembling with feeling. “See that you do.”

She floats away as she came, a dandelion seed on the wind. They watch her go in silence.

“Hey _impassioned_ _dreamer,_ ” Louis says, voice trembling over a laugh, “pass me a water.”

“Whatever you want,  _restless spirit,_ ” Harry simpers. They dissolve into cackles, Zayn joining them a moment later.

“So what the  _fuck_ was that, then?” Zayn asks, wiping at his eyes with his cheeks glowing pink.

Louis shrugs awkwardly from Harry’s lap as the boy tips his head up far enough to feed him water. “Festival girls, y’know. Everyone here is someone else, all that.”

“Yeah,  _shimmering heart,_ ” Harry agrees. “Shouldn’t you be off looking for a wheel spoke?”

“Fuck off,” Zayn laughs. “Pass me a bottle, also, would you.”

It isn’t until hours later when the campsite has quieted down to indistinct conversation and suspicious moans from various tents that they do their best to tune out, long after Zayn’s called it a night and crawled into the tent, that Harry asks mid-conversation, "Did you mean that?”

“That butterflies can eat putrefying flesh? Yes,” Louis says immediately. “It’s a science fact, you can look it up and everything.”

“No,” Harry drawls, staring up into the sky. They’re sprawled side by side, fingers brushing when they breathe. “What you said about that—girl. Taylor.”

“That she’s batshit?”

“That everyone here is someone else,” Harry clarifies. He doesn’t look over, which is fine, because it gives Louis license to stare at his profile. His nose is a perfect line from his brow, lips full under the weak moonlight.

Lips really unbearably full.

“I guess kind of, yeah,” Louis responds after a shaky inhale. “I mean we’re not all going around talking some shit about auras and naming people after My Little Pony’s, but. ‘S a bit removed from real life, isn’t it?” He shuffles so that his shoulder blades rest more comfortably against the ground. "Like a dream."

Harry does turn to him, then. “How far removed?” he asks, direct and with no room to be misunderstood.

And Louis clearly had it wrong. All day he’s been trying to make himself indispensable to Harry, something he craves like oxygen and remembers like the first time he stood on stage, something with a root system in his heart that blossoms outward to every edge of his being.

Harry’s already pulled it off on him.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Louis murmurs, helplessly honest. “Harry. I’m not pretending.”

Harry smiles softly as he thinks it over, eyes going hazy. “I’m not either,” he admits gently. “I hate lying about myself anyway.”

“Can’t imagine you lying,” Louis whispers, scooting his body infinitesimally closer. “Pretending to be something you’re not.  _Putting on airs,_ ” he says in the poshest accent he can manage, making Harry giggle. “You’re probably one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met.”

“You only just met me,” Harry says through a delighted smile.

Louis doesn’t answer, scared his fatigued tongue will roll out the words  _I’ve been looking for you for a very long time_ and send them plummeting faster than they know how to deal with. Or worse, scare Harry away, uproot the hold he has on Louis’ heart and send him into traumatic shock while his veins reroute themselves in a feeble attempt to work again.

They crawl into the tent, eking out space by where Zayn is curled in on himself. It’s just a change in scenery, really, as they end up facing each other with their breathing syncing up, their eyelids weighing down and down.

 

 

_now:_

 

Static rushes through the line as Louis breathes out, frustrated. Harry wonders what, exactly, he’s paying so much for on these international calls if Louis always sounds like he’s stuck in a blizzard.

It’s a stupid thought, entitled and so far removed from what actual human struggles look like that Harry kind of hates himself for it.

He kind of hates himself for a lot of things, lately.

“It matters because you’re supposed to  _tell me_ about these things,” Louis is saying, pained and sharp all at once. “When I’m gonna see a picture of some fucking tart splayed out over you on the cover of  _The Sun,_ you’re supposed to  _warn_ me about that shit.”

Harry laughs unkindly, despising the lecturing tone of Louis’ voice. He has no clue. No fucking idea. “Hate to break it to you, princess, but they don’t exactly tell me what’s gonna appear where. Industry’s a little more complicated than that.” Now he’s just being nasty, talking down to Louis like he hasn’t been right beside him through this entire meteoric rise to sexual infamy.

 _Four hundred women in a year._ Fuck’s sake.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m seven, you complete dick,” Louis hisses. Generally, Harry can hear the faucet running or the kettle whistling in the background, Louis going about the beginning of his day on the rare occasions he's able to catch Harry at the end of his. Now there’s nothing, which either means Louis is so mad he’s gotten to that place where he’s just pacing the flat and spitting venom, or Harry’s blood is pounding in his ears too loudly to make out anything else. “You couldn’t have told me you were doing club promo this week? I have eyes, you know, I know those pictures are recent. Recognized the  _fucking_  bracelet I sent you.”

“Can you stop fucking nagging me?” Harry groans. “I was only there for like three hours on Wednesday, Christ.”

“You  _told me_ you were with Cara on Wednesday,” Louis grits out.

Harry rolls his eyes, for all the good it’ll do. “I was. Mostly.”

Louis’ voice is higher, less even when he says, “You promised you’d always tell me when you had to do this shit.  _Promised,_ Harry.”

Something unpleasantly like guilt coils in Harry’s stomach. He’s already managed to have a rough day, his morning consisting of a dressing down from PR over his use of gender-neutral pronouns and how it makes him appear ‘impotent,’ a word taken to mean something else entirely. Then he spilled some protein concoction formulated by his trainer all over the floor and slipped when he went to clean it up, bruising his hip quite badly, and now Louis is at mosquito-pitch levels of whining and making him feel like shit.

He’s sick of it. “Shut up,” he says over Louis’ ranting. “Just shut up. You have no clue what kind of week I’m having.”

“That brunette might though, yeah?” Louis goads. “Or hey, why just  _mystery girls?_ Why not one of your pretentious LA blokes next time?”

Harry is so angry he’s  _dizzy._ “You didn’t just imply that,” he rasps, dangerous.

“Why, the fuck,  _not,_ ” Louis shouts down the line, matching him pound for pound of lethal anger. “Not like you’re  _telling_ me where the fuck you are these days! Why  _not_  get your dick sucked in some LA club bathroom? It’s not like I’d ever fucking  _know!_ ”

Harry goes supernova, anger molten-red in the backs of his eyes, the roots of his teeth. “Just because your ego is made of glass, Louis, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to stop every five seconds and make sure you feel  _important enough!”_

Louis is saying something. Harry is past hearing it. “Honest question though, if you couldn’t handle this, then why did you fucking rope me into it in the first place?”

“Harry—”

“You weren’t  _ever_ part of the plan,” Harry grinds out, “and I’m _sick_  of you acting like being with you is easy. You’re so goddamn ungrateful all the time.”

The silence that follows rings down to the marrow of Harry’s bones. His words echo around his sitting room, glancing off the pale, high ceilings and finding his ears, magnified.

He has his mouth open, breathing to say Louis’ name, when the phone clicks.

Harry gives himself five minutes to sort through how shattered he feels, how angry and sorry and  _tired_  he is, before he hits the call button.

The first six times, the ring is interrupted by the person on the other end pressing the  _Ignore_ button.

The seventh time, it rings clear through, like they’re not paying attention at all anymore.

 _Please call me,_ he types out, hitting send before he can think about it.

A text comes through, jolting him from a heavy, hazy sensation of panic and  _pain,_ but it’s only his PA reminding him of the interview at that posh little café he has at one o’clock.

Right. He looks out the massive windows, wiping at his cheeks while he takes in the day that’s still only beginning.

It’s beautiful out, sunny and blue. From this height, even Los Angeles’ smog seems innocuous and nearly misty. An enchanted city.

A perfect life.

Harry tucks his phone away, sound and vibrate all the way up where it rests in his pocket, and goes about the hollow business of living the dream.

 

 

_a memory:_

The world smells like sunshine when Louis rouses from sleep.

“Lou?”

He smiles, lips brushing hair. “G’morning,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” says a deep voice.

A stick of antiperspirant hits him in the kneecap. “You two gonna cuddle all day or are we gonna enjoy the festival?" Zayn says. His voice is muffled like cloth is restricting his mouth. Louis opens his eyes to see him settling into his t-shirt.  _Cool Kids Don’t Dance._ Sure, Zayn.

“I _am_  enjoying the festival,” Harry rumbles into the pillow he and Louis have ended up sharing. The sunshine smell, Louis realizes, is a mix of tent heat and Harry’s hair where it’s tickling his face, the boy turned into him with their limbs tangled.

“Your shampoo smells great,” Louis whispers unthinkingly.

Harry mumbles something that sounds like  _daffodil_ and pulls away enough that Louis gets to watch the flush spread over his cheeks.

“Up, up, up, up,” Zayn is chanting, throwing Louis’ toiletries at the pair—Christ, why did he bring three types of hair product?—until Harry’s massive hand comes up and smacks the incoming toothpaste out of the air.

“Up?” he asks Louis, sleepy and familiar in a way that belies the amount of time they’ve known each other.

Which is. Less than a day. Louis extracts himself against the protesting of his bones, the magnetic pull of Harry’s form curled into his own. “Yeah, let’s,” he says, tone raspy and sweet.

They change quickly—Zayn lends Harry trousers and Louis lends him a shirt and then averts his eyes when he changes, which makes Harry giggle a little for reasons Louis might grill him on later.

The main stage is packed by the time they get there, so they get their fill of the (honestly lackluster) set and then move down the list to the next act they want to see, off on the support stage down the slope of the venue.

As they break through a cluster of people waiting for face-painting, Zayn clarifies a point. “So it was all in his head.”

“Yes!”

“Sort of,” Harry modifies, bumping Louis in the shoulder gently when Louis scowls. “He was doing it all but didn’t realize.”

Zayn frowns. “Then who was he talking to the whole time?”

“Himself,” Harry says, patient.

“And no one else  _noticed?_  What about when he’s arguing with himself in the driver’s seat?” Zayn picks over a puddle, clunky combat boots grounding his fawn-thin legs.

“Obviously they  _noticed,_ they just didn’t—” Louis’ brow scrunches. “Wait. That’s…actually a good point.” He nudges Harry and Zayn out of the way of a roving pack of festival-goers with neon spray paint covering them in random stripes.

“I think it was meant to be, y’know, a commentary on bystander effect. The impotence of the modern man. Cultural castration. And all that,” Harry ruminates, motioning to a break in the crowd that’ll allow them to near the stage.

“Hazza’s cracked it!” Louis crows. “Zayn, be smart like Hazza.”

“You first,” Zayn retorts. “Do we want to eat after this? That Thai stand looked good.” The words are nearly lost to the opening chords of the band’s set. Louis is already moving to the rhythm, pulling his boys into the orbit of his enthusiasm.

The day passes in this manner. Louis manages to wrap a single rice noodle around the bridge of Zayn’s nose with a well-aimed flick of his plastic fork, and Harry gets them to go through the  _Mystery Tunnel_ which, all innuendos aside, is essentially a human-sized toilet paper roll with neon paint and black lights along the inside that rotate as you move through. What may or may not be The X-Files theme plays from a battered boom box in the corner of the booth.

“This is lame,” says Zayn, halfway down the short hall.

“Can’t hear you, Zayn,” Harry says, twirling as he walks, “I’m in  _spaaaaace._ ”

Louis smiles, charmed beyond reason. Zayn catches his expression in the eerie half-light and rolls his eyes. The music finishes and begins anew for the third time since they’d stepped in here.

“Seriously, Harry, you owe me two quid.”

“Money means nothing in  _spaaaaace._ ”

Dusk is falling as they review their list of Must See Acts, Louis feeling sticky and grimy but unwilling to stop clinging to Harry just a little. They’re both in the same boat, anyway, a little sweatier and smellier than at the day’s start, but Louis still insists on draping his legs over Harry’s as they sprawl in the grass. Harry’s just as bad, head on his shoulder like he pays rent, hand resting palm-up on Louis’ thigh like a suggestion.

Louis is feeling particularly suggestible.

Because between the good, cheap food and lame side attractions and vendor booths and melting pot of insanity that is the festival crowd, the second day of the music fest is also this:

Harry, jumping to the pulse of a song, pale wrist wiping at his forehead while his eyes find Louis’, shimmering green.

Harry, laughing at one of Zayn and Louis’ uni stories, head thrown back and soft hair curling at his temple like a cello’s scrollwork.

Harry, flushing peony-pink when Louis looks up in time to catch him staring, averting his eyes for a fraction of a second only to slide them back up and meet Louis’ amused gaze with an unrepentant grin.

Harry, with his hand wrapping around Louis’ wrist. Harry, snuffling a laugh into Louis’ shoulder. Harry, looking at Louis’ lips while he wets his own with a pink tongue. Harry, pressed up firm against his back during a slower sound with a heavier bass line, daring Louis to grind into him as he sings the words softly into his ear.

If he didn’t feel so bloody disgusting, he’d lay Harry out in the middle of the grass and dig into him, tongue and teeth and—

“So we saw Glittermeat,” Zayn says, surveying their list with a battered sharpie in hand, checking off items as he goes, “and we saw Wig Bastard Funeral.”

“Can’t believe they didn’t play  _Runoff,_ ” Harry mutters where his head lolls on Louis’ shoulder. Louis pats his curls consolingly, then keeps his hand there, playing with the strands.

“The Buzzkill Poetry Assassins don’t play until tomorrow—”

“Oh, that’ll be sick,” Louis groans. For all he knows his way around a pop anthem, he’s got rather hipster sensibilities. “ _Gaslighting_ live? Fuck me.”

Harry makes a little grunting noise, too lackadaisical to mean anything at all, but he shifts a bit against Louis’ side and Louis thinks he might understand.

“We  _missed_ Victim Socks,  _Lewis,_ ” Zayn says accusingly, crossing the name out with a little frowny face next to it.

“Worth it,” Louis sing-songs, playing with the custom bracelet around his wrist. It’s climbers’ rope, or something, done in an olive shade, with gold thread woven through at odd intervals to give it a marbled quality. Sick as fuck and completely unique. Certainly better than dumb old Victim Socks, the twits.

“Gillian & Ruby—oh, they got moved ‘til tomorrow, right?”

Harry nods. “Three forty-five on the main stage.”  
Louis tries not to feel too smug at how he’d successfully gotten Harry to agree to spend Sunday, the last day of the festival, with them. Zayn finishes up his check-off. “’Kay, so that means tonight is f—”

“Zayn? Shit,  _Zayn Malik?”_

The trio looks up as one, squinting against the dying sun where it cuts an angle into their irises.

For a second, all Louis sees is a halo of gold.

Then Zayn says, “Oh my god, oh my—Niall!” and throws himself onto his feet, barreling full-tilt into the corona of light that is, Louis realizes belatedly, the golden-blond hair of a boy about Zayn’s height with his same slight build.

“My baby’s come back to me!” cries the Irish lilt from a moment ago, words cresting on a laugh, well-muscled arms coming to wrap around Zayn’s reed-thin torso and spin him.

Zayn— _allows_ it, what the fuck, all boneless, easy familiarity with this complete stranger. “Why are you—how did— _holy shit,_ man, it’s been—”

“Ages, I know,” the boy ( _Niall,_ Louis reminds himself grudgingly) says, grin face-splitting and movie star white.

“You know him?” Harry asks quietly.

“Guess I’m about to,” Louis replies, Zayn and Niall stumbling over each other’s feet—both wearing massive boots that make their legs look like toothpicks—back to where Louis and Harry are sprawled.

“Larry! Fuck, sorry,” Zayn says, laughing as he turns to Niall, admitting, “I’ve been low-level inebriated since like eleven,” which makes Niall throw his head back and laugh in a way that can only be described as  _robust._ “Uh, Louis. Harry. This is Niall,” he says, indicating each man as he says their name.

“Hey, mate,” Harry says, dimple showing as he shakes Niall’s hand firmly.

Louis is working something out in his brain, staring at Niall’s slight hand in Harry larger one. When he does, he gasps, jumping to his feet so quickly he knocks Harry clean over and leaves him staring up with bewildered eyes, kittenish and disgruntled.

“ _You,_ ” he breathes, pointing, “you’re Camp Niall!”

Niall’s face dissolves into a short bout of laughter that looks vaguely painful and wholly satisfying. “Well I wouldn’t go  _that_ far,” he wheezes, red-faced when he beams at Zayn. “I mean we had our thing but—”

“He meant because we  _met at camp,_ ” Zayn cuts in quickly, cheeks pinking. “Christ, they don’t—”

“Oh,” Niall says, pale blue eyes wide as he realizes his error. “I didn’t, uh. Do they—?”

“Zayn likes boys sometimes, yes yes yes,” Louis says quickly, “but you’re  _Camp Niall!_ I thought you were a  _myth!_ ”

He sort of is, even now. When Louis’ roommate freshman year had bailed after first semester, he’d taken a chance on the goofy, quiet-until-he’s-not English major from his shitty Bio class; several loads of possessions and two six packs later, he’d been starry-eyed as Zayn regaled him with tales of life in Bradford and the arts camp his mum started sending him off to for six weeks every summer from age twelve on.

Central to these tales of Camp Hobswall Arts Intensive (which Zayn and his friends somehow got in the habit of calling  _Camp Tea_ ) was a fellow named Niall Horan, an Irish kid with a battered acoustic who’d eschewed his ‘old ways’ when he’d started showing up with aggressively bleached hair. Niall was a whirlwind of music and laughter and general fuckery, dragging Zayn and their group of friends into a series of pranks and stunts that left their councilors flummoxed, frustrated, and reluctantly impressed. They’d once dyed the camp’s water supply pink with food coloring. Their second to last year, the pair had set up a backdoor honey selling operation with a colony of bees they cultivated and raised to maturity over their time at camp. According to Zayn, the colony was transported up the road and away from the cabins to a spot known as  _Ziallophone’s Rest,_ where it remains intact and functional to this day.

Louis has always known, in a dark part of himself, that if and when the opportunity ever arose, he’d need to do one of two things: defeat Niall, or learn his ways.

“Not a myth, mate,” Niall assures him, clasping his hand and shaking firmly. “Just a—”

“Don’t say it,” Zayn pleads, grinning like he wants the exact opposite.

“ _Legend,_ ” Niall finishes triumphantly. His cheeks are shiny with how hard he’s smiling. “Agh, and you two inherited my Zayn?”

“Lou’s my roommate,” Zayn explains, “Harry’s his—uh, he’s a new friend,” he finishes awkwardly. Louis can sense Harry’s blush where the boy has risen to stand beside him.

“What are the fucking odds, man, I’m tellin’ ya,” Niall is saying, arms folded and biceps bulging a bit as he shakes his head in wonder. He's wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, making it work far better than anyone has the right to. “Zayn and I lost touch, you know, and I just sorta figured—”

“That that was that, yeah,” Zayn finishes, soft wonder coloring his tone. Somber, “God, it’s good to see you, man.”

He and Niall gaze adoringly at each other, a friendly sort of love. Louis is a bit of a bitch, but he’s a self-aware bitch, so the fact that he  _doesn’t_ feel jealousy flooding his system is a surprise. There’s just something about Niall and Zayn’s easy intimacy that’s so clearly  _theirs,_ born of late nights in cabin bunks and early mornings perfecting vocal pitch control with the camp choir. Days under a hot sun before they knew fuck all about who they were, hopes and dreams and fears laid bare and shared between them.

And apparently a few orgasms, but Louis is going to hold off asking about that one until he can best startle Zayn with it.

“So what’ve you been up to? What’re you even doing here?” Zayn asks, arm casual around Niall’s neck.

“Uh,” Niall ducks his head, grin in no danger of fading. “We’re sorta…playing. Main stage. Tonight.”

“ _What!_ ” Zayn shrieks, high-pitched and undignified. Louis winces as him and Harry flinch back in unison.

Niall just nods like he expected as much. “Surpriiiise,” he says, uncertainty coloring his tone.

“No, I mean, that’s. That’s fantastic.  _Wow,_ ” Zayn says, running a hand down his face. “What’s your band? How did I not know?”

“Well we’re kinda offbeat, ‘s not your…standard fare,” Niall deprecates. “Uh. Angelina Sputnik?”

“Oooooh my god,” Harry says, voice rising in pitch like an airplane taking off. “Oh my god! You’re vocals, aren’t you? For AS?”

“Vocals and lead guitar, yeah.”

Louis snaps his head around. “You know his band?”

“Well yeah, I mean, yeah,” Harry babbles excitedly, pulling out his mobile, “they do like, Irish trad-rock stuff, but more fun and better lyrics.” He shows Louis the two albums and EP listed on his phone. “I pre-ordered  _Steady On_ the day it was announced _,_ ” Harry gushes to Niall, eyes sparkling.

“Cheers, mate,” Niall says, pleased.

“And you’re playing  _here?_ Main stage here,” Zayn verifies, dazed.

“Pretty much the lay of it,” Niall confirms. “Gillian & Ruby got moved to tomorrow, so we’re taking their slot. Was actually headed that way when you caught me.”

“Shouldn’t you have security, and that?” Louis asks overtop Harry's mumbled  _why did no one tell me_. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Niall, it’s just  _weird._ After all the stories and reminiscing on the part of Zayn, Niall Horan is standing right in front of him informing him he’s now not just Zayn’s adolescent camp bestie, but also a  _rock star_. Louis’s  _still_ pretty sure he’s a myth.

“Oh, I have security,” Niall says cheerily. “Alright, Basil?”

Zayn, Louis and Harry all whip their heads around to take in the burly man standing a few meters away, eyeing up passerby warily while remaining inconspicuous in the cool evening. The man nods in greeting, waving one hand briefly before crossing it back over his chest.

“Ah, Basil. Legend,” Niall adds. “Absolute legend. Anyway! How do you lads feel about VIP access?”

Which is how they find themselves in a roped off area at stage front, close enough to see Niall’s teeth shine when he sings down to them. He plays the crowd beautifully, him and his bandmates, tunes fast and fiendishly fun. There’s a couple of slower numbers where everyone sways their mobiles over their heads in time, Harry belting out the words with mesmerizing elation.

Louis catches himself staring thrice before Niall starts singing down to them in particular, Harry’s enthusiasm playing off his own until they’re just egging each other on. When he finally pulls away to engage the larger crowd, Louis is left staring yet again.

Harry looks over, grinning wildly. “What?” he asks.

Louis shouts to be heard. “That’s gonna be you someday,” he tells him, meaning it.

Harry’s grin fades slowly. He stops bouncing in time to Niall’s voice. For a moment, Louis is blindly panicked, thinking of ways to put the smile back on Harry’s lips.

“I’m gonna kiss you!” Harry says, certain. “Louis, before we leave here, I—I’m gonna kiss you!”

“Hey, we’ve been Angelina Sputnik, and this has been fucking fantastic!" Niall kisses his hand and waves it, cheers washing up from the crowd to meet him. "We’re gonna be back here for some shows later in the year. We’d  _love_  to see you all then! Have a gorgeous night, you gorgeous people!”  He keeps waving with the rest of the band as they sink down on the stage’s inner platform.

The bodyguard—Basil, Louis recalls—ushers them backstage with the air of someone used to shuffling teenagers around, firm and weirdly paternal, despite his young age. They find themselves in a lounge area that’s as unglamorous as anything, save for the people standing in it.

Harry is already off mingling with the band, born rock star that he is, and Zayn stands with Niall’s arm around his waist, catching up like Niall  _didn’t_ just come off a stage at a major UK music festival, but Louis is suspended.

_I’m gonna kiss you. Before we leave here, I’m gonna kiss you._

Who on earth is ever that  _direct?_ Louis’ first instinct is to freak out to Zayn about it, but Zayn’s busy meeting the very tall, very pretty bassist of Angelina Sputnik. Perhaps her name’s Angelina. Louis should ask. Louis should—should do anything, right now, besides stand like an absolute oaf as everyone else makes friends with Niall’s internationally famous rock band.

God, Louis’ life is weird.

“Tommo!” Zayn calls. Louis snaps out of it, sees Zayn and Niall hovering near a doorway, Harry drifting toward them. “We’re going out to the bus, c’mon.”

He nods dazedly and jogs over, falling into step with Harry easily.

“Y’alright?” Harry asks, tone concerned but lips pulled into a smirk, the shit.

“Never better,” Louis lilts. It’s not a lie.

The bus is tricked out in a way Louis never really thought of busses as being. There’s a pool table, for one, a lounge area with a flat screen and endless gaming consoles, bars both mini and  _actual,_ fully stocked when Zayn sticks his head in them, and a selection of plush couches they slump gratefully onto.

Pints are passed around. Liquor is offered. Zayn hauls their dwindling supply of weed out before being told by Niall in no uncertain terms that they’ll be smoking something a little higher-octane, and proceeds to produce the fattest joint Louis has ever seen. When Harry asks after Niall’s bandmates, Niall shrugs, lit joint between his fingers.

“They’re all a bit over the party scene,” he admits. “They’re a bit older. Good news for our longterm coherency, though, I can tell you that much.” He takes a long drag, offering the joint to Zayn to his right. “Anyway, they probably headed back to the hotel for the night.”

“Babes, are we keeping you—” Zayn begins.

“Ahhh!” Louis says, wagging his finger as he raises a glass of something spicy and expensive to his mouth. “Zayn, we’re catching up with your friend, don’t make it weird!”

Niall chuckles a little, shrugging. “He’s right, Zayner. I want you guys to hang for a bit. I mean, if you want?”

“We want,” Louis says again, eyes catching on a copy of FIFA by the Xbox.

So they do. Niall is excellent company, bright and surprisingly mellow, even if he and Zayn occasionally talk each other into frenzies of remembrance that have the apples of their cheeks shining red with laughter and embarrassment.

Louis finds himself properly cuddled in Harry’s side, one of Harry’s lean arms wrapped around his shoulders while Louis thoroughly trounces Niall at digitalized footie.

“Augh, I stink,” Niall says, grimacing.

“Told you he’d kick your arse, Nialler,” Zayn says with clear adoration where he’s draped over the back of the couch behind Niall.

“No, I mean I literally stink,” Niall lifts his cutoff plaid shirt once, sniffing delicately. “Gross,” he whines. He sniffs again. “Ugh, disgusting.”

Zayn, Louis and Harry watch, amused, until Niall shakes himself out of his repetitive trance. “I wanna shower in the hotel which  _means,_ ” he continues, cutting over Zayn’s assurance that they can leave if he needs, “that we’re continuing this back in my suite. You lads in?”

“Road trip, hooray!” Harry cries, flinging his arms up like a human firework. He winces. “Eugh, but. Maybe we should clean up and meet you back here.”

“Nah, that’s stupid,” Niall says, thumbs moving on his mobile screen, “I’ll just get you all rooms at the hotel.”

“ _‘Weyhey, I’m Niall Horan and I’m just gonna set my mates up in a posh hotel ‘cause I’m a proper rock star, weyhey,’_ ” Zayn mocks, long body listing slightly on the top of the couch.

Niall doesn’t look up from mobile, just throws an elbow back and sends Zayn crashing to the floor. “Pretty much the scope of it, yeah,” he agrees absently. He smiles angelically as he sets his phone down. “Sorted. Let’s get blasted on the way there!”

“Road trip, road trip, road trip!” Harry chants, springing up from the couch to the liquor. Louis suppresses a whine at the loss of contact, reminding himself that he too is rather smelly. He hasn’t showered since he and Zayn left for the festival grounds yesterday morning.

Before he knew Harry.

It’s a terrifying thought, one that absolutely requires more liquor to handle, that Harry has only existed in Louis’ life for a little over a full day. That the sun and moon and all organic matter on the green earth below their feet rearranged itself to fit him in, keep him snug against Louis’ side, keep those big eyes locked on Louis’.

And Louis is arse-over-ankles about it before he even—

“Harry,” he says urgently. “Hazza. Haz.”

“’M bringin’ it,” Harry mumbles, carrying the liquor Louis’ been drinking over with a couple other bottles in his massive hands.

“Harry,” Louis repeats, a little panicky now, “what’s your last name?”

Niall and Zayn stop playfully bickering over music selections long enough to watch Harry slow to a stop and stare at Louis, mouth hanging open. For his part, Louis knows he looks as freaked as he feels, blindsided by the realization that he’s been so caught up in this boy that he  _doesn’t even know his full name._

“Styles,” Harry croaks out. He clears his throat. “Harry Edward Styles.” Biting at the plush of his lip, he starts, “What’s—”

“Tomlinson,” Louis says quickly. “L—Louis William, uh, Tomlinson.”

“But his mum calls him Boobear,” Zayn offers helpfully.

“Oh,” Harry says softly, ignoring him. “Glad we got that figured out.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, oddly queasy, “me too.”

The four fall into distractible conversation from there, Louis catching Harry’s stare every few minutes and feeling it like a live wire. No telling what the boy’s thinking, what he makes of their strange brand of sudden, easy intimacy.

No telling whether he loves it or fears it or a little of both, which is about where Louis has ended up.

When they get to the hotel, there’s a moment where the three non-celebrities are forced to process the level of wealth and circumstance Niall is working with.

“There’s a hot tub,” Zayn says slowly, “in your hotel room.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, already shedding his outer layers. “Feel free to have at it, lads. I’m gonna scrub myself down. Paul said he’d bring your room keys up, so if you hear a knock and it’s a—” he continues from inside what’s presumably the bathroom, voice echoing on tile, “—massive, scary guy in all black, don’t worry. That’s him.” The shower hisses on. “He’s a lover, not a fighter!”

“Ni,” Zayn scrambles, “Ni, none of us brought—”

“Just dig through my shit, it’s fine!” Niall calls.

The three stand for a moment, unsure. In a posh hotel room the size of an upscale flat, Louis hazards to guess they all feel terribly out of place, grimy and young. He certainly does.

Particularly the grimy part.

“This is mental,” Harry says quietly. “This is like, completely insane.”

Zayn has his lip tucked into his teeth. “You know, anyone else I’d agree. But with Niall it just sort of…”

“Makes sense,” Louis finishes. “Yeah.”

“There’s a chandelier, you guys,” Harry says hollowly, neck craned upward, “there’s an actual chandelier, right above our heads.”

Louis and Zayn look up as one. “Well that’s just a bit much,” Louis mutters, no heat to the words.

Someone taps on the door, two firm knocks, and the trio cast each other wary glances.

Ultimately it’s Zayn who braves it, checking the peephole and emitting a tiny whimper. “Bloke’s massive,” he whispers, pulling on the door handle.

“Zayn Malik, party of three?” the man asks, no nonsense. “I’m Paul, Angie Sput’s head of security.”

“Yeah, we’re—I’m Zayn.” The pair shake, Paul somehow leveraging it into an efficient stride far enough into the room to survey the three grubby teens.

He’s a big fellow, Paul, and Louis estimates he’s proper scary when he’s pissed off. They must not strike him as a threat, though, the way he’s looking at them with a gaze bordering on friendly.

“Which one of you was with Nialler at Camp Tea?” he asks.

“Oh, that was me,” Zayn says again, arms wrapped around his waist where he stands off to the side. He isn’t nervous, exactly, Louis knows, but even with Paul’s easygoing nature and Niall’s warm familiarity, there’s a certain level of  _unknown_ to the whole venture that has him struggling to process it all without a moment to withdraw. Something about introverts, Louis thinks.

At any rate, it’s probably his turn to introduce himself. “I’m Louis,” he says, Paul’s meaty hand engulfing his own, “I live with Zayn.”

“Pleasure,” Paul says. “And you?” he turns to Harry.

“Harry,” the boy says quickly. As they shake, he asks, “Do you run security on tours only or during everyday stuff too? How does that usually work?”

Paul’s eyebrows shoot up, but his lips quirk. “Interesting set of questions, kiddo.”

Harry smiles, unabashed. “The industry is interesting to me.”

“You wanna work in security?” Paul asks doubtfully, eyeing up Harry’s lean form.

“I want to perform,” he answers, so unwavering and sincere that Louis feels warmth bloom in his chest. “But that’s such a small piece of what goes into it all, you know?”

Paul grins for real. “Sharp,” he says. He pulls three pieces of plastic from his pocket. “I’ve got three keys for you. Don’t lose ‘em and don’t share ‘em with anyone.”  
They agree, taking the gold-tinted room keys and stuffing them in pockets.

“Have a good night, boys.” Paul heads back out into the hall before stopping and keeping the door held open with a palm flat on its surface. “And if you wanna talk about the industry, tell Niall so he can help you find me at breakfast.”

“Oh,” Harry says, voice warm amber, “sick. Thank you.”

The man waves it off, striding away.

“Gonna go dig through Ni’s clothes,” Zayn says, still staring at the door as it hisses shut. “You guys going to shower?”

They decide that yes, in fact, they do all require showers, and Louis hastily grabs a random, butter-soft henley and black skinnies before shuffling down to his own room a floor down. It’s not nearly as fancy, but the water pressure is insane. Still a little buzzed, he contemplates just staying under the warm spray the rest of the night.

The promise of partying literally like a rock star is enough to draw him out, though. If he happens to picture the flash of green eyes as well, there’s no need to own up.

Louis indulges in the sweet-smelling lotion the hotel provides before he dresses, going at his teeth with the disposable toothbrush and mini tube of paste just to round out the squeaky-clean feeling. He licks at his lip as he rinses. Is that…lavender spearmint? Zayn should bump into old friends every day.

Arranging his hair so that it won’t dry flat and limp and leave him looking terribly young, Louis straightens the collar of his henley and makes his way back to Niall’s suite.

Only to find it filled with people.

“Tomm _ooooo,_ ” comes Zayn’s voice over thumping bass. Louis watches as Zayn scuttles through the crowd, intentionally jerky and goofy and strange to make Louis laugh. He’s holding a mostly-empty drink, which might explain it, eyes glossy like black licorice in the dim lighting. “Thought you drowned.”

“In luxury, maybe.” Louis guides them back toward the bar area through a crush of people he’d probably assume were uni kids, under less compelling circumstances. “Where’s Hazza?”

“Not back yet,” Zayn informs him, topping off his glass with something dark. “ _He_ might’ve drowned.”

“Or fell in the shower, the clumsy fu—” It’s only because he’s turned slightly to talk to Zayn that he’s aware of when the suite door opens again.

Harry stands half in silhouette from the lights of the hall. There are certain things that seem emphasized by the uneven illumination, certain features. The width of his shoulders in a tight button-down. The way the pink of his cheeks paints itself to his temples. The bright, owlish quality of his eyes.

The apparent propensity for loud shirts and tight, dark trousers.

“— _uuuuuuck_ me,” Louis finishes, pitchy.

“What—oh.” Zayn peers over his shoulder. “Wow. Damn, Harry."

Harry has tentative fingers on the doorframe as he searches, unsure of his place in the crush of bodies.

It's an echo of the first time they met, Louis thinks, a million years and one day ago.

“Need to go to—there,” Louis manages, strangled, and splashes a measure of liquor and juice into a second glass before weaving back through the crowd.

Never has he felt such sympathy for moths faced with open flames.

“Took you long enough,” is his opener, hoping the derision will deflect from how blown-open his expression must be right now. The shirt, he realizes, is patterned in stylized roses, curling lines a compliment to the cut of Harry’s jaw.

Harry shrugs, gaze a little amused like maybe he knows what Louis’ problem is. “It was a nice shower,” he says, eyes shimmering.

Louis’ hand twitches. He raises Harry’s glass. “Get drunk with me.”

They end up pressed in with a group of people that, it turns out, really  _are_ uni kids who happen to also be friends of Niall’s, some transplants from Ireland, a couple casual acquaintances.

All plastered. The party gets louder and dodgier and dirtier as they chat and refresh their drinks and sway into each other on accident-purpose. Deep, throbbing bass has everyone moving to a rhythm without their express permission, bodies falling into each other playfully, sensually.

Inevitably.

They’ve just left Zayn and Niall, recounting childhood stories to a group of the band’s friends. Louis guides Harry back toward the bar by the wrist the same way he’d tow him through the festival’s crowds.

Somehow, they get spun, trajectory landing them in the sunken living area that’s serving as a dancefloor. Louis goes to grab Harry’s hips to keep him from slipping away and then just—doesn’t let go. Settling their bodies nearer each other, he peels his gaze up from where he can see Harry’s pulse rabbit in his throat and finds his eyes.

God, those eyes.

Green flame, or else molten jade, or else boiling emerald sea. In any case, Louis is burning.

 _You owe me a kiss,_ he goes to say. He opens his mouth for it, syllables conjured in his lungs when a head of blond hair appears by his elbow.

“Lads!” cries Niall over the music, body swaying with it. “I’ve got somethin’ for ya!”

“All good, thanks,” Louis replies, still caught in the heat of Harry’s gaze, but Niall either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care, because he’s brandishing a clenched hand in the sliver of space between their bodies. He opens his fist with a flourish, fingers waggling around the two tiny, pink tablets in his slightly sweaty palm.

Oh. In the thrum of heat and liquor and euphoric excess, it’s easy to reach out and take one, so Louis does. It begins to dissolve in his mouth after a moment, bitter sugar from the hands of a fairy angel rock star. He tucks the remainder under his tongue, smiling up at Harry as he follows suit.

“E?” he asks Niall, who watches them with a pleased little grin and immense pupils.

“Kinda,” he responds. “Little mellower. Kicks in faster, wears off quicker. Drink water, though.”

Louis gives him a look that he hopes conveys the level of  _duh, Niall_ that he’s feeling, but Niall is already melting back into the crowd, hips meeting every other person’s in loose, dirty grinds that spin him back out of the makeshift dance pit.

It’s kind of hot— _Niall_  is kind of hot, really—but there’s something better standing right in front of him.

Practically on him.

He wraps a hand around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him down far enough to run his lips over the shell of his ear. Harry shudders further into Louis’ body as Louis asks, “Ever taken one of those?"

Harry shakes his head, soft hair tickling Louis’ neck, sending pulses of heat straight to his dick. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he tells the younger boy, squeezing his neck once, “we’re gonna get some water like the nice rock star suggested, and then we’re gonna enjoy the nice drugs the nice rock star gave us in his hotel suite surrounded by other nice people on drugs.”

The pill is only making him more talkative, apparently. Harry is into it, if the nearly unconscious grind of his hips into Louis’ is any indication.

Louis’ eyes flutter a little with the feel of it.

“Need to do something first,” Harry rasps, tone catching Louis’ attention enough that his eyes snap open.

Stupidly, Louis almost asks  _what._

It ends up not mattering whether he asks or not; he gets it a moment later when Harry has one of his big hands on his jaw and his lips pressed to Louis’. He gives him only a second to adjust before he’s licking into his mouth, liquor-sweet and electric like the night is.

Brain short-circuiting, Louis distantly realizes how  _good_ a kiss it is, tongues slick against each other in a way that’s only made more pulsing and urgent by the bitter sugar fizzing in their veins. Harry grunts, high and lost, when they’re jolted apart by the press of other bodies, only to drag Louis back into him a second later. It’s a good kiss because they find a rhythm with shocking ease and it’s a good kiss because it’s drawn out like a festival weekend and it’s a good kiss because Louis can’t imagine he’s the only one thinking  _finally._

“Harry. Babe," Louis breathes into the hollow of Harry’s mouth where it’s open, hovering just over his with swollen lips. Louis is lost to this in a way he never thought to expect. “Wanna—”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, mouth back on Louis’ as their hips rock together, the rhythm of the music falling on ears that can only process the thrum of their own blood.

Harry’s mouth is rosewater and sharp red currants and, God, Louis has never wanted to  _consume_ a person like this, lay them out and  _have_ them in every way a person can be had. He wants to understand Harry's mind. He wants to claw his way into his heart.

It’s a minute or six or sixteen before they manage to haul themselves out of the sweltering crowd. Both of them are still sweaty and hard, crowding against each other all the way over to the table of water bottles. One of the assistants that makes Niall’s every whim materialize must have brought them out recently, because they’re frigid to the touch, slick with condensation. A bead of it runs down Harry’s wrist when he chugs a bottle, throat working. Louis grabs his hand and licks at the damp line, letting his teeth worry at the tender flesh of Harry’s wrist as he sucks a bruise there.

Harry’s pleasure is so obvious it’s practically  _edible,_ rich like cake when Louis backs him into a corner and gets his hand on the bulge in the ridiculously tight trousers Harry nicked from Niall.

Oh. “Gifted,” Louis might mutter, teeth on Harry’s pulse.

Jaw slack, Harry rocks into the touch. His hands feel hot and massive where they push under Louis’ shirt, rubbing over him like he’s covered in braille.

As if there are messages Harry could glean from Louis’ body that Louis wouldn’t already feed him without question. Words like smoke between soft mouths. Words like sun-ripe grapes.

“Can we—room—” Harry pants, then growls out a laugh far too feral for such a pretty face, “fu _huck_ , Lou,  _stop._ ”

Louis bites at Harry’s lip and squeezes where he can feel the head of his cock, its answering pulse drawing a whine from the boy. “You saying this isn’t good?”

“Think everything,  _oh—_ ” his lips round as Louis reaches up and finally teases at one of his nipples, pinching and rolling it through the course, expensive shirt,  “—everything with you is good.” His eyes flutter open and meet Louis’ like it’s an effort, green nearly eclipsed by manic black. “Can’t suck you off here, though.”

Louis’ dick disagrees, dampening the inseam of his trousers with a blurt of precome. “Lead the way,” he demands, but he’s the one who maneuvers them back through the crowd and to the door.

After the roar of the suite the hallway rings with silence, empty save for a security guy who averts his gaze when he sees the frantic groping that defines their stumbling walk to the lift. They nearly trip twice, barely able to pull their mouths off each other long enough to press the needed buttons or shuffle fully inside.

“My room, go to—my room,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s collarbone.

It's never felt like this, and Louis knows that's probably the drugs, at least in part, but it's only a coarser version of the desire he's been feeling in various shades and tones since he saw Harry yesterday afternoon. It's real, at its heart, the dizzyig want he feels.

They fumble into the dark room, finding the bed by way of a strip of moonlight that falls across it, poetic as anything. Louis goes down first, backs of his knees knocking into the mattress and Harry’s insistent weight pushing him into it.

“So fucking fit,” he wonders aloud, peeling Harry’s borrowed shirt off by the lapels as Harry snicks open the last button in the expensive material. “God, you look good in everything, probably, don’t you?” Harry is nibbling at his pulse, so it’s an effort to say, “Wanker.”

“Wanna look good in  _you,_ ” Harry mumbles into his shoulder, and Louis is nearly delirious with how this all feels but the way Harry’s fingers freeze on the button of his trousers makes him realize it was more than wordplay, what Harry just said.

“Yeah?” he asks, and it’s delicate, spun sugar. It’s not—Louis has had sex before, and it’s not as though it’s a revelation, exactly, sex with a fit boy.

Only it sort of is, because the fit boy is Harry, colossal dork and future indie rock heartthrob and the brightest thing in any room, as far as Louis can tell.

But Louis has a hunch, also.

He slowly nudges Harry off of him, shimmying up the mattress until he can click on a light and bathe them in amber. He needs to see Harry's face for this.

Louis swallows before he asks, softly, “Have you ever—?”

“No,” Harry answers, level and direct. His eyes are so sincere, so deeply wanting. They’re down from drug-dilated to simply lust-blown, green regaining dominance from black. If only barely. He crawls up the bed to kiss Louis deeply, expressive even with his tongue on someone else's teeth.

A shaky exhale. “Harry.” They’re mostly just breathing on each other now, bodies flush together halfway on the bed.

“I want it to be you,” the boy whispers, eyes blinking shut as he nuzzles at Louis’ neck, “I want my first to be you.”

Louis brings a hand to Harry’s hair, burying it in the thick curls and pulling back until he can make eye contact. Harry maintains it like a pro, like someone convinced they’re moments from getting what they want.

He’s not wrong. “Need to grab some things,” Louis murmurs, pushing at Harry’s shoulders until he gets the hint and lets Louis roll out from under him.

He rifles through the “courtesy bag” he’d found in his room when he had come down to shower (emblazoned with the Angelina Sputnik logo, which explains the tiny bottles of whiskey and ample selection of prophylactics), yanking out a miniature bottle of lube and a condom.

Bless Niall Horan.

“So were you serious about wanting to be in me, or—” Louis begins.

Harry’s laying sprawled out on the mattress, bare-chested with his borrowed skinnies undone at the zip so that his cock isn’t straining into it. 

Louis’ mouth is dry.

“Well like. Do you prefer one or the other?” Harry asks, hand gripping his erection loosely.

Suddenly the obscene proportion of Harry’s hands makes much more sense. “I, honestly love, I just want to make sure you get what  _you_ want,” Louis fumbles out, soft emphasis. He sighs, frozen as he watches Harry’s hand move. “That’s like, it’s a lot to give someone you just met.”

“I already feel close to you,” Harry reasons gently. Louis moves forward, shimmying out of his clothing as he goes. “And we’re having so much fun this weekend, you know?”

Louis’ heart hurts, longing for something he hasn’t named yet.

He decides to repay Harry’s raw honesty. “It would be terrible, if you regretted it. It would kill if that happened.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “I’m not gonna regret it.”

“Or if—” This is the harder one to admit. “When you think back on this in a year, if you’re going to, like, struggle at remembering who—”

“If you’re going to say what I think you are, shut up,” Harry interrupts, hand stilling on his cock completely. Louis’ mouth closes.

He seems offended, of all things. “Don’t be thick, Louis, you’re not just  _some guy_  to me. Or, or some experience I only want so I can share it with my friends later.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing under the flush of his throat. “Do you really think that’s how I am?”

“Of course not,” Louis says quietly, quickly. It’s silent for a moment where he stands naked at the foot of the bed. He imagines he can hear the bass from the party that rages upstairs, but in all likelihood it’s just his pulse ratcheting as he comes to a decision. “You should fuck me,” Louis decides.

Harry’s eyes warm as he shuffles up onto his elbows. “Yeah?”

“Gonna—have you open me up, alright?” Louis checks.

Something manic and excitable has taken up residence in Harry’s eyes. “Please, yes. Definitely.”

“’Kay.” Louis slithers in the space at Harry’s side, dropping the necessary supplies onto the boy's bare chest. The head of Harry’s cock, flushed and leaking, grazes the shadow of barely-defined abdominals and Louis is practically gagging for it, at this point.

He mouths at Harry's jaw a little as the boy holds his fingers out, letting Louis coat them in a generous amount of lube. “Y’ever done  _this_ before?” he asks, curious.

“To myself, yeah,” Harry assures him. “A few times. ’S not rocket science.” He punctuates the cheeky statement with a smacking kiss and fingers ghosting behind Louis’ balls.

Louis hitches a leg over Harry’s body as they turn more fully into each other, breathing already hinting at ragged.

“I’ll have you know my arse is worth substantially  _more_  than a r—” Louis loses the words a second before he begins to lose his mind.

Harry’s got these big hands, big for his delicate wrists, big in  _general,_ and his finger feels thick and hot and slick enough to have Louis loving it from the first second.

He whimpers out something that sounds a lot like  _oh,_ thigh tightening over Harry’s hip.

“Mm,” Harry agrees, steady as he thrusts with the single digit.

He comes back on one of the thrusts with another finger, tucked tight into his first and paced just slowly enough to have Louis’ body yielding to it in a way that feels like sparks dancing along his skin, shivery-warm all over.

Louis knows by now that he tends to get a bit useless during sex, lost in sensation and unable to think, for once, but he’s not there  _yet_ so he skitters one limp hand up to Harry’s cock where it bumps his navel with each thrust of Harry’s fingers. He tightens his grip around it, slicking the precome from the head down along the shaft and marveling in the way his thumb grazing just under the crown makes Harry shudder forward into him, teeth in his shoulder even as his rhythm never falters.

Harry’s curled all around him and  _in_ him, fingers grazing that spot that makes the edges of Louis’ vision go dark, and Louis is only thinking of ways to get them closer.

When Harry pushes in a third thick finger Louis breathes through it, twisting his wrist where he’s pulling Harry off to distract from the moment of discomfort.

It’s gone as quickly as it came, which is in no small part because Harry puts his plush lips on the spot just under Louis’ jaw, sucking a sloppy kiss there while he seeks out his prostate again.

“Ready, I’m ready,” Louis gasps, too many sensations opening up the canyon of want in his chest.

Harry pulls out his fingers, expression smoky while he fumbles blindly for the condom that’s fallen between them.

Louis snatches it the second his fingers find the foil. He tears it open and slides the thin latex down over Harry’s cock, rock hard and so big Louis’s already aching for it.

“How do you want me?” Louis asks, and if he pitches it like a purr to watch the way Harry bites his lip and ruts his hips up helplessly, no one can blame him.

“Can I—like this?” Harry asks, tentative in a way Louis’s never seen. “Can I have you like this?”

On their sides and facing each other with Louis’ leg thrown over Harry’s hip. “’Course you can, love," Louis answers sweetly. He nibbles at Harry’s bottom lip as he shifts a bit to line Harry’s cock up with his hole, one hand around the hot base of it as he lets Harry nudge his entrance.

He pulls back from Harry’s face, wants to be able to watch the first time he gets his cock in someone. Harry’s already staring at him but it’s through eyes so foggy with lust Louis doubts they’re seeing much at all.

He begins pushing in, and it’s a tight enough squeeze to get the head inside that Louis grunts, sweat building at his temples. Harry is  _massive,_ fuck.

“You okay?” Harry grits out, brow drawn in concentration as he makes himself stop with only the head of his fat cock in Louis’ body.

“Go, go go go,” Louis breathes. He wiggles a little as he acclimates to the perfect delicious too-much of it.

Harry doesn’t need more than that, it seems, hips working forward so slowly Louis suspects he’s doing it more for his own self-control than anything, and it’s a long, sweltering minute before he’s completely buried, Louis’ leg wrapped around his back and slipping in the sweat there.

“ _Louis,_ ” Harry says, voice shot. His eyes look—lost, almost, bewildered, like no one ever told him it’d feel so good.

For his part, Louis is letting out a stream of whimpery nonsense, losing coherence to the feel of Harry’s cock sliding out so slowly and then pushing in only the smallest amount faster, shallow little thrusts that do something dizzying to him.

“So good Haz, best thing I’ve ever felt,  _fuck,_ love how it feels being this close to you,” Louis whines, rapid-fire and trembling and no control over any of it.

Harry’s eyes grow darker in the lamplight, expression nearly distraught in its pleasure. “Y’mean it?” he asks, choking out the words as he builds a short rhythm with the small amount of space they’re allowing that’s so remarkably  _hot_ some delirious part of Louis’ brain is certain he’s done this before, been inside someone before.

He hasn’t, though. Louis is the first.

It’s the thought that sends Louis over the edge not more than a minute or so later, spurting between them and slicking up their stomachs while breathing out a whine. He figures it answers Harry’s question well enough. And Louis would feel chagrined, finishing so quickly, but Harry looks about a dozen thrusts off from following suit,  _if that,_ pretty rosebud lip tucked into his teeth as his brow knits, almost pained, and he comes.

“Most wonderful boy,” Louis is soothing, barely aware of his words as he cradles Harry through his orgasm, hand in his hair and around his sweaty back, keeping them close. “So beautiful, Harry, always so beautiful. Fuck, feel so good, love.”

He can  _feel_ Harry pulsing in him, champagne fizz through his veins with each shock that courses though Harry’s body, through his dick, and it’s a moment before he’s willing to let Harry pull out, wincing a little with sensitivity as he does.

They lay there, still on top of the covers, still tangled, breathing each other in until all their constituent molecules are the same.

“As if I could ever forget you,” Harry murmurs, petal-soft when he kisses Louis. “As if I could ever forget a thing about you.”

Louis feels achy in good ways and bad ways, pleasantly sore but with his heart sagging apart as he remembers that all dreams end the same way: with you waking up.

“Still got one more day,” he reminds Harry. “Don’t start in saying shit like that just yet.” He smiles, mostly teasing, only a little bit pleading.

Harry must get it. He kisses Louis once more and it’s unbearably tender, that kiss, before he rolls off to toss the used condom and shuffle to the sink. He downs a glass of water before refilling it and holding it for Louis, who takes it gratefully. It might as well be straight from a mountain-fed spring, as far as his post-high, post-fuck body is concerned.

When he’s finished, he tangles them back together, head against the dip of Harry’s collarbone. Harry’s hand finds its way to the back of Louis' neck, playing in the soft, tousled strands of hair at the base of his skull.

Louis isn’t one for pillow talk after sex, mostly. He gets pliant and dreamy in a way that doesn’t necessarily mean sleepy, and he’s never quieter than he is after being with someone. Marco, a boy he’d seen for a couple months at the start of his first year at uni, asked about it once. Asked if it was because he didn’t think to speak to the person he’d just bedded, or simply didn’t care to.

It’d taken time, but Louis has a firmer grasp on the why of it now.

He thinks of that first moment he saw Harry, the raw honey that poured from his mouth, the diffused light that poured from the outside world, distant, distant.

He thinks of the certainty, the amber clarity an unnamed boy with sunflower-yellow shorts inspired in him. A shift in his focus, newly refracted light.

He thinks of how he never stood a chance, probably.

Louis doesn’t do pillow talk because Louis is brutally honest when he’s naked, soul as vulnerable as his flesh after he’s known a person as physically as one can. The truth is always the closest it can get to the surface of his heated skin, then, pooling in his capillaries, but the truth is seldom good conversation.

Seldom so sweet.

“I think,” Louis says, soft and soft and soft into the warmth that surrounds them, “I think I knew you were going to be important.” He licks at the backs of his teeth. “To me, I mean.”

“I’m important to you?” Harry asks wonderingly. Which is—surely he can see it, because subtle it is  _not,_ the way Louis looks at him. The way he’s delighted in him every moment they’ve known each other.

Louis just snorts. “Little bit, yeah,” he admits. “And I...knew. Suspected, maybe. From the second I saw you.”

Harry’s silent for a long moment. Louis closes his eyes gently, willing his heart to be made of something sturdier than stripped pine as he waits out the torturous could-be of the moment.

“We’ll stay—in touch, right?” Harry asks finally. “After tomorrow. I can visit you?”

“Of course we will,” Louis whispers, boneless now that he knows Harry doesn’t regret it all, the hours spent pressed to Louis’ side, lichen to stone. “Of course you can.”

“Good,” Harry replies, thoughtful and still in that way Louis’s beginning to recognize. He’ll figure out what it signifies one day.

He’s planning on it.

 

 

_now:_

 

There’s a ring in Harry’s coffee mug from where it sat unattended for too long. He notices this so that he doesn’t have to notice the stares of the other people in the meeting room, pressing barbs into his skin.

It was exciting and a little funny, the first few times they’d hauled him in for these conferences. Men in suits taking up inordinate space, women gesturing efficiently to make sure he followed along, talking-to’s that were required and expected. He met them all with a nod and earnest expression of gratitude for the opportunities which, they impressed into him like hot iron, were bestowed at their discretion.

All for show, surely. So much bluster. He knew what was in his contract when he came here, knows even better now, three months into his stay in Los Angeles. They only need him to listen to them, and he was going to do that anyway. He’d confided to a slightly-drunk-at-2am Louis on Skype yesterday evening that, for all the stereotypes, for all the industry is meant to be full of snakes, Harry had yet to feel the bite.

He’s feeling it now.

“Now, the initial appearance agreement is three outings, spaced at one every two days,” drawls a woman whose harsh words are belied by her soft features, “and if the general public’s initial reaction is favorable, a contract is prepared to keep her on for four months, with opportunity for renewal at that point…” she raps a pen against her own knuckles twice, smile dispassionate. “…should we so desire.”

Harry’s stomach clenches. He doesn’t so desire, as it happens, not now and not three  _outings_ from now, whatever the fuck those are meant to be, and certainly not in four months.

They’re wrapping up the meeting—debriefing, really, as Harry’s opinions were asked after very little and acknowledged even less—when he thinks to ask, “Will I have to—hold her hand?” He thinks of Louis’ hands, small and tan and clever whether they’re picking out a tune on the piano or opening Harry up, giving him something to bare down on while their mouths clash messily atop the cheap sheets of Louis' bed.

A chuckle ripples through the room, prickling Harry’s skin and drawing blood to his face, but no one answers.

As people filter out, the man who had given him his initial schedule for the—the  _bearding,_ it’s called, the arranged romance to stuff him back in a closet he’s not been in since he was thirteen, if that even counts—says, “Might have to do a lot more than that, kiddo.” It’s not unkind, the way he says it, but there’s such chilly superiority, such assumed  _power_ over Harry in his tone, that the boy feels stripped of self-assurance anyway.

When he stumbles into the hall, dazed and aching to call a boy fast asleep on the other side of the globe, Liam is waiting there with his phone held like he’s planning on reading something off. It’s likely Harry’s schedule for the rest of the day.

And Harry—can’t, right now.

“Give me ten minutes,” he pleads, bee lining for the bathroom, “just ten, Li, I swear.”

“Har—” Liam is concerned, brown eyes all warm and worried and God, that’s the first time anyone’s looked at Harry with anything approaching care this  _month._

He makes it to the toilet stall, aware enough by now of his propensity for messy moments of panic when the pressure mounts, but it’s still unpleasant when he heaves up the protein-rich breakfast his trainer’s been shoveling down his throat to help him bulk up.

The thought of  _why_ he’s being told to gain muscle, of who all will be openly discussing whether he could hold them against a wall and fuck them with his biceps straining, has him heaving more until even his allergy pills are probably out of him. There are reflexive tears fat and hot on his face.

“Harry,” comes a voice.

Harry sniffles, grimacing at the bitter taste invading his nostrils, “’m in here,” he answers, throat ravaged from bile.

He hadn’t bothered to lock the stall door behind him, too busy expelling his morning into cold porcelain, so Liam is easily able to kneel down beside him and clasp a hand to the back of his shoulder, rub at it soothingly.

“They want to set me up with a beard, Li,” he says despairingly. “Want to—make me hide Louis away, like he’s not my…” There are too many ways to finish it, each truer and more painful than the next. He leaves it.

“I know,” Liam says quietly. “They sent me the papers while you were in the meeting—you have a digital copy in your inbox, if you…want.”

“I don’t want,” Harry mumbles despondently. “They already made me sign everything.” Sign everything away, per usual.

Liam leans back on the opposite wall of the stall from where Harry’s slumped, still crouched down. It’s not often that Harry remembers how young Liam is, all the circumstances of location and family and ability that got him so far before he was quite twenty, but he remembers it now. There’s a wary acknowledgment of the way things are here in the slant of his brows, but there’s a trembling disbelief at just how cruel it can be in the bow of his lips. He slumps back fully onto his arse, dress pants doomed to dust marks from the tile.

“Couldn’t I just be with  _no one?_ ” Harry asks after a long moment. Liam’s gaze flickers up from where it had taken on a thousand-yard quality. “They don’t have to tell the world I’m gay, just let me—”

“You have to seem…obtainable,” Liam explains. “You have to seem like you would date a normal girl. A fan, say.”

“I wouldn’t date  _any_ girl!” Harry says on a caustic laugh. “I don’t. Like.  _Pussy._ ”

“I  _know,_ ” says Liam, and Harry can watch him fighting to make Harry understand without sounding cruel, stripping the whole ugly system bare for someone who is still so much an outsider, even now. “Harry. I know. But your demographic is largely young women, your  _astounding rise to fame—_ ” this said with a wry twist of Liam’s mouth, not quite believing  _Rolling Stone's_  phrasing either—“was on the backs of their tweets and, and reblogs, and  _fanaticism._ ”

It’s the truth. Harry was positioned by the label as an up-and-coming indie heartthrob so effectively it made his head spin. First came the single, something heavy on acoustic guitar with lyrics he didn’t write about a fictional relationship doomed by drugs, just vague enough to be generic and universally heartbreaking. Next were the TV appearances, performances on daytime talk shows where he was told to never answer questions about his personal life in any but the vaguest terms. Then came the premier of the album, promo spots painting him as soulful when all he ever feels is  _silly,_ spouting off about random shit on camera and seeing it played back with his music added into the background. As if that legitimizes the bites of audio they clip together to be about love and passion, when really he’d been taking the piss out of it all.

It’s not even really  _his_ music anymore. Harry’s got notebooks stuffed with songs at home, a developing craft from age twelve on, and not a single one of them found it onto the album. He’s been given writing credits for small additions, a bridge here or a rhyme in a chorus, but it hardly compares, even if there’s something singularly overwhelming about hearing it played back in professionally mixed, high fidelity recordings.

And anyway, millions of people are eating it up.

It’s not the core of him they love, the truest parts, but it’s a jumping off point. The opportunity of a lifetime, Harry knows.

But this. This goes further than he expected. It cuts deeper.

“I have to keep feeding them that,” he acknowledges, “Harry Styles, soulful indie crooner or whatever the hell they’re calling me.”

“Saw one last week that was  _Harry Styles, barely legal British babe,_ ” Liam says, contempt shining through too clearly for it to really lighten the mood.

Harry frowns. “Where was  _that?_ ”

“Doesn’t matter,” Liam assures him, shifting to stand. He does, offering Harry a hand and pulling the boy up as well. “It’s all rubbish. The people who love you know who you are.  _You_  know who you are."

Harry takes a minute in front of the long mirror, splashing his face and rinsing his mouth. Liam stands by his side, the strong brows and loyal blood in Harry’s life here.

“I know who I am,” he sees his reflection say. The sterile white lighting shows every imperfection in his skin.

Liam breathes out, an exhale descriptive as a novel. “Hold onto that,” he says.

 

 

 

_a memory:_

“Sleep well?”

“Mmmm.”

“Me too. You cuddle like no one I’ve ever met. Octopus Styles, they should call you.”

“ _Mrrphhmm._ ”

“Do you think we’ll have time for breakfast after this? Zayn hasn’t texted me y—”

Harry pops up from where he’s got the tight heat of his mouth working over Louis’ length. “Sorry, am I sucking you off  _that_ poorly?” he asks, brow knitting. His lips are an obscene pink.

Louis pauses in his chatter. He huffs a little laugh as he licks over his lips, embarrassed, and smiles down at the boy between his legs. “I’m a loud person,” he explains.

“Figured that,” Harry notes, watching the lazy sway of Louis’ spit-shiny dick like a cat with a toy.

“And I—hey, fuck off,” Louis giggles. “And I guess I sort of have this habit of trying to… _stave off orgasm_ by talking. Just drivel, like, utter nonsense mostly.”

Harry licks out over the length of his cock, tongue dragging right under the crown. He keeps his eyes—sea foam in the morning light—on Louis as he does to show he’s listening.

“Uh,” Louis blanks for a second. “You’re uh, you’re making me feel really good.”

“’S the point,” Harry says cheekily, mouthing at Louis’ head.

“I’m trying not to come too soon.”

Harry’s tone is arch when he says “It’s a blowjob.” He nuzzles the trim hair at the base of Louis’ dick. “It’s meant to make you come.”

“Oho, look who turned into a sexpert overnight,” Louis teases, rolling his hips up once. Harry takes the hint, sort of, hand moving slow on Louis’ dick.

“I’ve given blowjobs before, Lewis,” Harry drawls.

Louis feels—not good, hearing that. It makes sense, because of course it does. Harry is beautiful and charming and could likely have anyone he wanted, if he did in fact  _want._

The idea of him wanting anyone but Louis makes something heavy and sticky like tar sit at the base of his throat, though, so he tries to push the thought away. “Show me what you mean then, love,” he mumbles, hand in Harry’s curls that swirl like a frangipani bloom.

Harry gives him an odd look, but before Louis can decide if that’s something to worry about or not his mouth is back on his cock, showing him what he means.

Louis hauls the boy up for a snog after he swallows, gentle and dazed and a little lax on the technique. Harry finishes in the slow, hot grind of their hips, sheets still caught on their ankles in some posh hotel room neither of them are paying for.

“Where’d the word  _sexpert_ come from?” Harry asks as they peel themselves from the bed, collecting borrowed, rumpled clothing on the way to the shower.

“Saw it in my mum’s copy of Cosmo once.” At least they avoided getting off  _in_ Niall’s clothes, Louis thinks, shaking out his discarded henley. That ought to count for something, because the option was  _right there_  and arguably easier, little pink tablets and alcohol and the taste of each other hot in their veins all of last night.

“No, I mean like, who came up with it?” Harry muses while they step into the spray. He steps back enough that Louis can grab the mini bottle of shampoo.

Louis lathers up his hair, shrugging. “Probably the same person who came up with the word  _adorkable._ ”

“Eugh,” Harry grimaces, fumbling for the body gel with his head still inclined toward Louis.

Louis closes his eyes to rinse the shampoo away and opens them to find Harry’s hands all over himself, working the gel to a lather that runs over ridges of delicate bone and into divots of lean muscle.

“See something you like?” Harry says, voice an exaggerated depth as he does an odd little shimmy that looks ridiculous.

Louis’ heart pangs. “I don’t want you blowing other guys,” he blurts.

The shower fills the quiet of the moment where Harry stands there, wide-eyed and dripping. He’s staring like something important is happening in front of him. “I’m not,” is his reply.

Well it’s out now, isn’t it. Louis just goes for it. “When you—go home, I mean. I don’t. Want that.”

“I’m  _not,_ ” Harry repeats, grin warming his oversized features until he glows. “I want—are you asking me out?”

Louis opens his mouth.

“Are you asking me out in the  _shower?_ ”

His heart hurts a little from how hard it’s beating, but Louis can’t help the beginnings of a helpless twitch at the corner of his lips when he takes in the wicked amusement in Harry’s eyes. He drops his head.

“Are you asking me out in a posh hotel shower after—after  _deflowering_ me in a room paid for by the lead sing of Angelina Sputnik?” Harry clarifies, laughing throughout.

“Yes!” Louis admits. “Yes, okay?  _Jesus,_ you’re dreadful.”

“’S probably why you wanna make me your  _boyfriend,_ ” Harry says, voice trembling with barely-contained mirth. He brings his arms around Louis, fitting them together like a puzzle.

Like a perfect fit.

“This is like,” Harry mumbles quietly into Louis’ slick shoulder, “the best, most interesting weekend I’ve ever had. In my whole life.”

“It’s been kind of perfect, hasn’t it?” Louis wonders. “Should we be—worried, about that?” he scrunches his face, honestly unsure.

In Louis’ experience, good things don’t fall out of nowhere. They don’t land in your lap and announce themselves and carve out room in your life and do the dirty work for you.

Maybe they don’t land so much as they call faintly, though, melodies heard by chance. Maybe they don’t announce so much as they lead you to the right conclusion, something warm like fate tugging at your navel and whispering  _Are you listening? This is important._

Maybe they don’t carve because they don’t have to, the space preexisting, as if you were expecting them. Like you were preparing, all that time, through your own careful assembling of yourself.

Maybe the work is never dirty when it’s in the service of something great.

“I’m not worried,” Harry answers, weighted like he’s thought it through. “Not about us.”

 

They make it back to the festival, sky muggy and overcast and exhausting to look at.

Last days are this, always: friends stumbling back from wherever they’d found themselves in the night, dark, pleased circles under everyone’s eyes. Abandonment of previously made plans, inner heathens sated prematurely. Swaying to easy beats for sun-weathered ears, but only for long enough to get the last taste of what you’re leaving. Mellow, easy moments between strangers, familiarity and comradery in having survived a flash of raucous youth together. Bickering which occurs as the tent is being folded away and the keys are being fished from where they’ve lain neglected in the bottom of dirty rucksacks. People beginning to adjust as eyes do to light, welcoming back the realities of their lives outside an enchanted, suspended place, and finding strange comfort in the awakening.

Mostly.

“He’s not—I can ask. No, he’s busy. He’s busy, mum, I’ll text you when I ask. Yeah, lots. Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Love you too.”

They stand at the boot of the car, Zayn already fiddling with the music in the passenger seat.

Louis shuts the boot tight, tent and everything else shoved inside. “Your mum have a question for me?”

“Only if you two wanted to stay for dinner after you drop me,” Harry informs him. “It’s roast. Beef,” he adds, when Zayn pokes his head out the window with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, mouth already open, “I checked.”

“Cheers, yeah,” Louis agrees. “Is that. Your family, will that be—?”

“Oi!” Zayn calls from where his head lolls against the window, “Heart to heart in the car! We’ve got a long drive!”

“Zayn’s just bitter ‘cause it turns out King Hell sucks live,” Harry says loudly. Quieter, “My parents are cool. They’ll be wrapped around your finger in about a minute, probably."

Louis bats his eyelashes and guides Harry into the backseat unnecessarily. He’s got the door shut behind the boy when something pricks his vision and he smiles. "Hold on.”

He’s back a second later, fist full of the fat, springy blooms. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he cranes back around to thrust them at Harry.

It takes him a moment, confusion melting into a pleased grin. “Lilacs.”

“ _Aw,_ ” Zayn says, trying for scathing but missing rather disastrously. “Like your—psychic steez or whatever Crazy Taylor said. Aura.  _Awwww._ ”

“Zayn thinks I’m cute too!” Louis yells, starting the engine. He talks fast over Zayn’s protest. “You can tell ‘cause now he’s trying to deny it, see, look,  _look—_ ”

On the outskirts of Holmes Chapel, Louis meets Harry’s eyes in the rearview mirror, golden-green curved into a smile under a halo of purple blooms.

 

 

_now:_

Red…red. Black stripes…black stripes. Green with pink checks…

“Lou,” Harry calls back into the flat. Technically it’s Zayn and Louis’ flat, but Harry stays here more often than not since he got signed, even if the drive to London for meetings and promo is a bit of a pain.

A lot of it can be done remotely anyway, and when the option’s there, Harry always takes it. He’s probably the label’s laziest artist.

“Yeah love,” comes the chirped reply. Louis’s in the kitchen, from the sound of it, likely puttering around with the kettle since it’s still too early to start on dinner.

“Have you seen my other crazy golf sock?”

“Is it not in the drawer?” Louis' voice draws nearer until he appears in the doorway of the bedroom. He takes in the mess of Harry packing, two suitcases left half-full as Harry sorts through for his best socks.

They’re really comfortable, okay.

“No,” Harry puts the crazy golf sock off to the side for now, turning back to the pile on the floor. “Thanks anyway.”

He looks up because Louis snickers, eyes squinting over where he has his hand covering his mouth. The hand in question is peeking out of a sleeve that falls to Louis’ knuckles, the jumper clearly one of Harry’s, and oh, he loves this boy a lot.

“What’s so funny, you?” he asks, wrapping a hand around the back of Louis’ thigh and hauling him down onto the floor.

Louis lands in Harry’s lap with a squawk, warming the chilly air of the bedroom with his smile.

Harry kisses it off his face. The grain of the uneven hardwood is digging into one of his toes and he has about a million more things to pack before he’s ready to leave the day after tomorrow (to  _Boston_ , where he’s going to  _start his first international tour,_ holy  _shit_ ) but he can’t be arsed to care with Louis wiggling to straddle him properly, beaming down at him when he manages it.

“So fuckin’ funny to me,” Louis murmurs, “that you can be this international rock star—”

“’M indie,” Harry grumbles, lips on Louis’ soft neck, “I’m indie and under-the-radar.”

“—yet you still go round the twist if—”

“I’m  _fringe._ ”

“—your ratty old socks are missing,” Louis finishes. He stares down at Harry, imperious and nearly feline in his regard. “You’re quirky, Styles.” One of his fingers comes up to trace the bridge of Harry’s nose, tapping it once on the tip. “Why not just buy more like a normal human?”

Harry mock-bites at it, smiling when Louis tries to flick him in retaliation. “I like my things,” he answers, “the things that are mine.”

“New things can be yours,” Louis murmurs. His expression dims. “Got that big fancy place in LA.”

“Not that big,” Harry says, words worn from use, “not that fancy.”  _Not home._ “I wanted to just crash on the floor of the studio, but,” he shrugs, “they don’t trust me around the fancy machines unattended.”

“Once I left you alone with my laptop for three minutes and when I came back it was stuck looping the opening credits of  _Hey Arnold,_ ” Louis argues.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I maintain that that was full-on a magnetic field disturbance, and—oh--baby, don’t. Don’t cry.”

Louis shakes into his chest with the sudden sobs, curling in on himself like he’s being squeezed from the inside. His fingers cling to Harry’s shoulders the way his legs wrap around Harry’s waist, like he’ll disappear otherwise. It’s enough to break Harry's heart, how desperately Louis is hanging on.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whimpers around a cry, “I’m so sorry, I just,  _Harry—_ “

He’s incoherent again, wracking sobs into Harry’s shirt, tucked under his chin while Harry strokes Louis’ back with one hand and massages his neck with the other and makes  _shh_ ing noises to try and calm him all the while.

“Who’s gonna w-watch  _Gogglebox_ with me?” Louis asks, sniffling in a futile attempt to keep snot from running down his face with the tears.

“W—Zayn, love, Zayn’s staying right here with you,” Harry soothes.

Louis shakes his head violently. “But who’s gonna  _talk through it?_ ” he asks, strangled.

And Harry has to laugh, a little, at that.

They’re lying in bed hours later, sweat cooling between them while they doze off to the smell of each other. Louis speaks, sleep-slurred. “I’m your one and only, right?”

Harry hears it halfway in a dream, registering the voice as Louis but momentarily unable to tell if he’s meant or able to respond.

“Harry,” he says again, quieter. Like maybe he’ll give up if he thinks Harry truly is asleep.

He’s not now, though, not with even the suggestion that he might get on that plane day after next and think about anyone else for even a second of his day.

“You’re my one and only,” Harry murmurs, turning from where he’s sprawled on his back to tuck Louis into him. Harry is generally the one who gets curled around, the little spoon since the day they met, but Louis needs this. “You’re my everything.”

Louis nods drowsily, eyes still shut. “My everything,” he echoes.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers. His eyes sting.

There’s so much to be excited for. Harry is going to sing to sold-out crowds all over North America, people who’ve supported him so thoroughly and so infectiously it was a news story when his debut single finally  _dropped_ from number one on the charts. He’s going to do the only thing he could ever imagine doing for thousands of people excited to watch him do it, meet them in places still completely foreign to him. And when that’s all finished, he’s going to spend a few months in an LA studio recording a second album so he can do it all again.

It’s a dream, as thrillingly bright as the night in Niall Horan’s hotel suite when he’d realized he was within spitting distance of it.

It’s tempered, though, by all the things he might have realized then, had he not been so caught in a swirl of liquor and music and drugs and Louis. The way Niall was so generous with his money and company because he got lonely, traveling all over with bandmates a decade and a half older than him. The way they’d had to sign away anything they’d seen or done the night before on paper the next morning, because even Zayn couldn’t be legally trusted not to talk for money. The fact that, for all Zayn and Niall looked at each like they’d built a galaxy for each other—for all Harry had caught them sharing a kiss goodbye, so painfully intimate he had to look away, cheeks burning—Zayn had let Niall go as easily as anything, at peace with all the things they wouldn’t have because of who Zayn is and who Niall has become.

Louis makes a high, vulnerable sound that’s nearly a squeak, fingers ghosting at Harry’s bare hip. It’s an effort then for Harry not to crush him to his chest, hold his boy as close as he can tonight and tomorrow night and all the way to Heathrow.

Because after that, the world changes for good.

 

 

_a memory:_

 

Harry comes through the door, eyes a numb mint.

“Well?” Louis asks. He’s had too much tea, was already feeling keyed up before Harry left. The situation has only deteriorated since then, but it’s been  _three bloody hours_. What was he supposed to do,  _not_ drink tea and drive Zayn crazy?

Speaking of. Zayn comes skidding into the room, socked feet gliding until he smacks into the sofa.

“He’s ba— _oof—_ he’s back!” he narrates unnecessarily, righting himself. “Hazza! Babes, what—?”

“They want to sign me,” Harry says, voice stripped of color. “They—they want me to make an album.”

Louis is shouting and barreling into Harry’s body before he’s fully conscious he’s doing it, Zayn a step behind.

“ _Harry!_ ” he shouts, laugh-screaming directly into Harry’s ear, but who cares about  _that_ when his  _boyfriend_ is making it. “Oh my God! Oh my—”

“Yeah,” Harry says, arms eeling out from under the two boys to wrap around their backs instead. “God, I know. Fuck, I was bricking it in that cafe though.”

“You’re a proper rock star, baby!” Louis is shouting, jumping up and down with so much enthusiasm it’s starting to bleed over into Harry, warm his shocked bones. “You’ve always been my rock star but now you’re going to be a  _proper fucking star!_ Harry!”

Harry’s smiling, dimpling even, but his eyes are downcast. “There’s not—I might not, like, people might not like my music. Me.”

“Has that ever been a problem,” Zayn says as Louis smacks a kiss to Harry’s jaw, “even once in your life?”

Huffing a laugh, Harry shrugs, bashful. “It’s all so—” he swallows. “Massive. This is massive.” His face breaks, attempt at restraint shot when he starts to laugh. “This is  _huge._ ”

“What do you want for dinner?” Louis asks, vibrating with excitement like one of those tiny dogs. “We should go out, what sounds good?”

So it is they end up at a greasy spoon diner with impeccable burgers and shakes that contain about a pint of ice cream each. It’s wholly satisfying, particularly when paired with the shine of excitement that doesn’t seem to leave Harry’s eyes all night.

Louis makes them stop and pick up a couple bottles of champagne on the way home.

The three get drunk on wine that fizzes like tangy, jubilant luck. Harry calls his mum and puts her on speaker when she cries, eye roll completely fond. Zayn texts Niall and Harry gets a call from him a bit later, mostly just shouting and variations of  _congrats man!_  from where he’s hiding in club bathroom in Brussels.

After Zayn drifts to his bedroom for the night with one final squeeze of his arms around Harry and a murmured “You’re going to be so good, babe, so proud of you,” Louis goes about grappling with the cork on the second bottle, bubbly-drunk and nearly dropping it on the first attempt.

When it pops open, the champagne sprays out and directly onto Harry where he’s hovering too close. He squawks from the chill and peels his soaked shirt off, but all that means is Louis can watch the stuff drip from his collarbones to his navel.

There are a few more ways he can think of to celebrate.

“Right, so,  _we_ are gonna go get naked,” he informs Harry, hauling him to the bedroom by one hand and clutching the neck of the slick champagne bottle with the other, “and then  _I_ am going to get every detail on this whole record deal thing from you.”

Harry gets his trousers undone when they clear the doorway of the bedroom and then pulls Louis into him, hands spreading out on his arse as he rolls his hips once, already getting hard. “What if I don’t wanna tell?” he asks. It’s all talk; his desire to gush about everything is written plainly in his features.

“Gonna make you talk,” Louis says matter-of-factly. “Gonna make you do a lot of things.”

Harry’s cheeks start to pink up. “Oh,” he says stupidly.

Louis licks at the droplets of champagne lingering up near his neck. “So proud of you, love,” he murmurs into the hollow of Harry’s throat. “You deserve this.” He nips at delicate skin, feeling Harry grind their hips together again. “You deserve so much.”

After Louis’ extracted about as much information as he can expect from someone getting their brain sucked out through their dick, he fumbles in the bedside drawer for a small bottle, ankle over top of Harry’s bare thigh.

The boy’s eyes are glazed and his cheeks are ruddy, chest still sticky in places from champagne. Louis had kept pouring it into the rivulets of his muscles, tongue blazing hot trails over his skin, and while Harry doesn’t seem like he’s pushing for full coherence, he does manage to garble out, “You’re my best friend, you know. Very best.”

Hands dropping to his lap, Louis feels oddly struck by the words. “You’re my best friend too,” he answers honestly, chest warm. “I love you.”

Harry shimmies a bit on the bed, eyes still spacy and fixed on where Louis kneels next to him. “I wouldn’t be here without you,” he insists, “and I love you too, so much.”

Louis brings slick fingers down and down and down even as he brings his mouth to Harry’s, held up by a forearm so he can hover above him. “Where is ’here’?” he asks quietly.

“The—the beginning,” Harry explains, voice raw like he’s feeling too much.

Louis can sympathize. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me ugly cry.” He ghosts fingers between Harry’s cheeks, tender pressure.

“Ah, you’re  _that_ level of drunk,” Harry says, arm looped around Louis’ neck to pull him back into a kiss. His breath spills unevenly over Louis’ lips when he pushes a digit into him.

Louis moves his wrist slowly, keeping his mouth near Harry’s. “Shut up,” he giggles.

“Could end up laughing ‘til you get the hiccups again,” Harry muses to himself, “could end up crying for an hour.”

“Shut  _up,_ ” Louis insists.

“A crossroads.”

“You’re the worst, I should leave and warn everyone.”

Harry hums, lazy flutters of his eyelids. “You’re good.” He licks out over his bottom lip. “Good here.”

“Mm.” Louis preps him slowly, so thorough he knows Harry’s aware he just doesn’t want to stop touching him like this. There’s a moment where something strikes him, match-bright in the midst of his lust, and he shivers through an orgasm with the thought still burning in his mind.

“I think,” he tells Harry later when they’re tangled lazily and without expectation, “that it’s  _making love_ when you could just as well not be touching them and still be part of them.”

Harry doesn’t have a response past kissing Louis, but it’s eloquent, it’s so, so eloquent, and Louis understands. He does.

 

 

_now:_

  

He clears his throat, action informed by irritation. It’s been tickling him all day, his throat. He hasn’t decided if it’s a cold or just a side effect of singing the same lines over and over, three pitches each.

It wouldn’t do to give anything less than his all when recording his album, would it.

“So it’s  _all I can see i—_ ” he tries, trilling the difficult line.

“Right, but higher on the end there,  _all I can see is mountains now,_ ” Julian, one of his writers, directs.

Because there are writers, teaching him how to exist in a recording booth for eleven hours at a time, helping him improve his material.

“ _Mountains,_ ” Harry tries again.

“ _Moun-tains,”_ Julian corrects, pitch high then low.

They run through it twice more before Julian likes the way it sounds in his headphones, giving Harry a thumbs up for a five minute water break.

Harry salutes gratefully, stepping out of the stifling booth.

He’s immediately met with a chilled bottle and a throat lozenge, unwrapped and shiny-red in Louis’ palm.

“You’re the best,” he tells his boyfriend, popping the lozenge into his mouth before swigging at the water. “Absolute best.”

Louis smiles sweetly, standing on his toes to kiss Harry after he’s swallowed down most of the liquid. “You sound incredible on the playback.” He’s soft all over, beanie over clean hair and a jumper that’s probably Harry’s. It's a habit of theft Harry should break the older boy of if he wants to maintain custody of any of his softer articles of clothing. He can see Louis’ rucksack by a chair on the room’s far side, the hard edges of several textbooks showing through the canvas because Louis has midterms next week and can’t spare the time he’s visiting Harry in London if he’s not going to study as well.

He works so hard, wants such good things. It’s yet another reason for Harry to give his all during performances and interviews and writing sessions, really, another reason to win the hearts and minds of his steadily growing fan base. There’s not a future he can see that doesn’t have Louis in it. Not one where he doesn’t take care of Louis as well as Louis takes care of him.

The session drags in parts, a tricky harmony on a bridge that they nearly scrap because Harry can’t nail it, can't rough up and smooth out how Julian wants, but mostly it’s singing and that will never be a chore. By the time Julian is rolling his head on his shoulders and locking the doors behind them, it’s nearly midnight.

“There’s that all-night kebab place we went to last time,” Louis suggests as they step out onto the street. He winds a hand around Harry’s arm, hanging off him as they walk. Harry has learned that Louis is never cuddlier than when he’s sleepy.

But Harry turns into an absolute twat when he goes to bed hungry, so feeding themselves before they pass out in the flat the label's renting for him is imperative.

“There’s that pizza place,” he notes. “Giorgetti’s. They’re open twenty-four, yeah?”

Louis makes a small noise of disgust as they start left down the sidewalk. “Pizza sounds gross right now,” he says. “Like, we could and I could just get wings, but—”

“No it’s cool, just a suggestion. There’s—”

“Harry?!” comes a shrill, unfamiliar voice. Harry’s head jerks toward it on instinct, but all he sees are shadows cast by streetlights. “Harry!” it comes again and, oh.

“Oh,” he says.

“What—?” Louis asks as Harry turns to stand more or less in front of him, blocking him from the trio of girls scurrying across the street to them.

“Hello,” he says, cheerful as he can manage. “What’re you girls doing out so late?”

The girl at the front of the trio, clearly the leader, pushes hair behind her ear with a trembling hand as she says, “We heard you were recording and we wanted to see if you were out here.” She blinks quickly, eyes shiny in the low light like she’s overwhelmed by it all. “We waited  _all day,_ Harry.”

He grins hard to fight the prickle of unease up his spine. They were waiting for him.

It’s not the first time—it’s not the fiftieth—that Harry’s had fans (nearly always young women) approach him for autographs or a picture or just to say hi, but it’s the first time he’s had a group of girls stake out his place of work to accost him in the middle of the night. As far as he knows.

It’s the first time it’s happened when Louis was with him.

For his part, Louis stands off to the side—tired and making poisonous faces—as the girls get a picture each and then one as a group and then get Harry to sign their copies of a magazine he did a cover shoot with a while ago.

“I tweet about you every day,” one promises him, somber, “and I’m subscribed to your YouTube channel.”

“Thanks so, so much,” he says sincerely. He’s tired and he’s starving and Louis is tense and pouting when he looks at him, but Harry’s grateful, so fucking grateful to these girls for their staunch belief that he can produce something of value.

“Are you going to be here tomorrow?” one of them asks, expression glassy and a little slavish.

“He’s going to be busy elsewhere," Louis snaps. They all turn to him. Harry watches the girls take him in for the first time.

“Who’re you, then,” one asks sullenly, but the head of the group is already saying “Well, it was lovely to meet you! Bye, Harry! We love you!”

He walks backwards to wave at them as him and Louis continue down the block. When they turn the corner out of sight, he brings one arm up, wrapping it around Louis’ shoulders.

The boy flinches out of the hold wordlessly.

“Lou?” Harry turns to look at Louis, the way he’s got his arms crossed tight over his chest and dark circles under his eyes that are only accentuated by the streetlight they’re passing under.

The boy says nothing. Harry sighs, determined to wait out his boyfriend’s strop but irritated that he’s being made to.

They reach the kebab joint, just a walkup window set in a small storefront, really, when Louis finally speaks. “Why didn’t you tell those girls off?”

Harry orders for them—he frequents this place pretty regularly when Louis’ back in Manchester—and almost doesn’t process the question, so left-field it appears. “For what?” he finally thinks to ask.

Louis rolls his eyes, but it’s accompanied with a self-deprecating headshake. “For stalking you, Hazza” he says. “For straight-up stalking you.”

“They weren’t—” Harry frowns. “They were really young,” he tries instead. “They just—like, with the single, and that, they were just excited to be near someone they’d seen on the telly. It’s harmless.”

“ _They_ were harmless,” Louis impresses, “their  _actions_ weren’t.” He picks brown napkins out of the dispenser, one after another, to combat runny, spicy sauce.

“You really wanted me to get into the moral complexities of obsessive fan behavior with three teenagers at midnight on a Wednesday?” Harry asks. “Just on the sidewalk, how you do.”

Louis shrugs gracelessly, gaze flicking up to Harry’s. It’s been odd, observing himself getting taller—physically  _bigger_ —than Louis. He’s always thought of his boyfriend as larger than life, and that hasn’t changed, but moments like this, when Louis’ gaze is evasive and his shoulder blades shift like a wary cat, he really feels it, all the ways Louis is smaller than him.

They’re half a block down the street and still unwrapping their food when Louis tries to explain. “I want to act like I’m being  _noble_ , I guess,” he says, self-disparaging, a much uglier habit than jumper-thieving, Harry reckons, “by hating every time fans get invasive like that.” He takes a bite of his gyro, efficient chews so he can finish his thought. “And that’s definitely a piece of it. But uh, mostly, I’m just…jealous.”

Harry wraps an arm around Louis’ narrow waist, gratified when the boy settles into his touch. “Did you want them to tweet about  _you_ every day?” he asks lightly.

“Want you all to myself,” Louis admits around a mouthful of food. He swallows. Grins, small and rueful. “Probably always going to want that.”

“I’m more yours than anybody’s,” Harry tells him. He types in the gate code for his flat complex, holding it open for Louis. “Like, for what it’s worth, there’s no one I’d rather have go into a strop over thirteen-year-olds stalking me.”

Louis is thoughtful and sweet like rose musk when he sighs and says, “I know. I just--" he shakes his head. "Fuck it, I love you. I’m just tired and bitchy, I think. Gonna sleep like the dead.”

“Finish your food, young man,” Harry says, faux-stern around a mouthful of falafel. “Then bed.”

He tosses what Louis doesn’t finish and carries him from the sofa to the bedroom twenty minutes later, lips gentle on his forehead as he goes.

 

The dream isn't even that bad, objectively, no terrifying monsters or untimely deaths of loved ones, but Harry still jerks awake with unease squirming in his gut.

He breathes out slowly and turns to check if Louis is still unconscious. True to his word, the boy is dead asleep with his mouth barely open, puffing damp air against the pillow.

Harry feels phantom distrust wash over him, an echo of pain from the Louis in his dream. Dream Louis, with his darkly flashing eyes and  dismissal of Harry's music, his fans, his choices.

"Ridiculous," Harry whispers to himself. 

Louis has his back, every step of the way. It's the only thing he's sure of.

They're fine.

 

 

_a memory:_

The only thing keeping Harry from throwing up is the knowledge that he’d have to do it in a porta-toilet, or else in front of everyone. There are days he’s willing to be a complete mess. Today isn’t one of them.

Today is the first day of Leeds Festival 2011, and Harry Styles isn’t going to fuck it up.

The urge is mostly gone by the time they’re motioned to begin any necessary setup on the stage, so he focuses on that instead.

It’s weird, and not totally within Harry’s grasp of language to explain, but there’s something about performing that centers him. A singularity of intent and execution he’s thus far found nowhere else. He'll do anything if it might entertain someone, a crowd or his own mum on the back porch, and it's as simple as that. Go entertain. Be entertaining.

And for all he dreads the moments leading up to a performance—handful that he’s had, all at his school or local events or in his own garage until now—there’s never been a moment he wasn’t fully  _in_ while on stage.

Harry has known for a while: he’s in. He’s all in.

For all the dreaming, though, the easy self-confidence no one ever talked him out of, Harry supposes he never truly expected to  _get_ this far. The smallest stage at Leeds, off in a corner of the festival in a tent made for well under a hundred, but Leeds nonetheless, and a massive break if he and his band are seen by the right people.

If Harry catches the right eye today, the right ear, this could be the most important day of his life.

So he gives it his all, voice primed by vocal warmups he learned off of YouTube, mic clutched in his hands like it’ll slither away if he doesn’t hold tight. He gets a little lost in it like always, barely conscious of how he moves in the short yellow swim trunks he’s wearing with a white tee. The outfit is breathable enough for the heat he feels from so many eyes on him at once, which is good, because the crowd has grown significantly since his band stepped onstage.

Another song, and they’re past tent capacity, easy.

He notices this distantly, a hot, happy thrum of adrenaline under the other layers, the thrill of performance, the nearly erotic throb of the melody over his tongue.

Harry inhales after belting a long note, head dropped as he breathes. The bassline is leading to a chorus and he raises his face to the crowd again, prepared to finish this song like he means it.

Something near the tent flap catches his eye randomly enough that he doesn’t really know what does it, light or movement or gravity, possibly.

It doesn’t matter; he sees him.

The boy is tan and confusing to look at, sharp cheekbones and a soft curve of neck into shoulder into bicep. He’s got blue eyes that refuse to be dimmed by the soft inner lighting of the tent and feathery hair that he fixes with the backs of his fingers. He’s looking away, jostled by someone in the over-capacity venue and none too pleased about it, thin lips twisting into the most artful scowl Harry’s ever seen.

He doesn’t stop moving over the words of the song—he wrote it, didn’t he—but it takes conscious effort not to get distracted by the boy who falls more into focus than the people around him. A clue trying to give itself away.

The set finishes strong, dizzying noise from the crowd as Harry smiles and waves. He gets lost in it, high on applause, until he remembers sharp and soft and blue.

He trots off the stage while the boys start packing away equipment, which definitely wasn’t the agreement and he’s sure he’ll catch hell for it later, but he’s already lost track of the boy in the crowd and, fuck, what if he left while Harry was singing, eyes closed and head thrown back like some overdramatic  _numpty?_  He looks at the dense crowd, oddly panicky about the possibility.

“Hey, Curly!”

He swivels toward it, the familiar epithet, and thinks,  _Oh, there you are._

There he is. Contradictory lines and curves and standing out like a spill of ink on linen, the boy’s not too far from Harry at all, eyes sparking like flint when they notice Harry noticing them.

Language is hard. “Uh, hullo,” Harry manages. The boy smiles, pearly-sharp teeth and the sweetest crinkles by his wide eyes, a lush sweep of lashes dusting his cheekbones when he blinks slowly.

“There you are,” Harry mutters to himself unconsciously, moving toward him.

There he is.

 

 

_now:_

Louis hasn’t slept in days. It’s really a matter of semantics, but he refuses to call the shallow, pitiful fits of rest he finds in two and three hour increments  _sleep._

They hardly qualify as rest in the first place, body still while his soul fights a battle it’s losing.

Has been losing.

He feels bone-dry, cried out as of a yesterday when Harry tore everything apart with that beautiful mouth and it's hideous words.

Louis had been too shocked to even process, numbly hitting _end call_ and denying all of Harry’s attempts to get through as he thought back on the last nearly-two years of his life and the way, apparently, he’d built them on a presumption he had no right to make.

The presumption that there would always be a place for him next to Harry. The presumption that distance meant nothing, a temporary complication that had nothing to do with them and their love and their future.

Essentially: the presumption that he’s Harry’s world, the same way Harry is his.

He wept through the first nasty shockwaves of betrayal and confusion, hurt and unmooring and uncertainty all originating from the core of his being and leaving him gasping for air on a damp pillow. Now he just feels the aftershocks, rides them out like a vicious flu. Dreadful and inescapable, born somewhere under the skin.

He turned off his mobile last night after a handful of calls from Harry, the mere sight of his name hurting, and he’s not looked at it since. Zayn knows he’s alive, anyway, keeps making enough food for a second person even though Louis has yet to express any interest in eating.

Bless Zayn, honestly.

Endings—and Louis aches at the mere suggestion, but he’s nobody’s  _fool_ —pull beginnings from the soil. They examine the delicate roots from which things grew, rough fingers picking apart the foundations until they’re mangled beyond repair.

It’s human nature to yearn and examine and cast unfair shadows back over the past. Louis isn’t immune.

The strain has always been there, he reflects. Perhaps not that first hazy-perfect weekend, not in the heat of a crowd or a tent or each other, but soon after.

After Harry got signed, Louis thinks bitterly.

They smiled with grim determination each step of the way, hand in hand until even that was taken from them, and Louis doesn’t know how he didn’t  _see_ it, the cracks in their brand of perfection.

It comes in flashes: Harry in a posh hotel in Leeds, enamored by the ease with which Niall Horan could have the world move around him, meeting his whims like magic. Harry in London, living for the recording process and smiling placidly when his songs— _his_ songs—were splintered apart to make something more palatably mainstream. Harry in Louis’ bed, promising him the world he could so suddenly afford when all Louis wanted was his time. Harry in a glamorous Los Angeles flat, screaming into Louis’ ear about what a fucking  _burden_ he was to maintain.

Louis can’t even blame him, and it’s that thought that has him resting his head against the arm of the couch, breathing through the assertion like a hangover. Swells of anguish ripple up, saltwater all through him. Stinging in his throat. Heavy in his lungs.

He fantasizes about drowning, the peaceful weight of it.

Louis manages to drift off well enough that the knock at the door startles him, aching muscles twitching at the aural intrusion. He contemplates doing nothing and letting Zayn fish around for his own keys to unlock the door, but then Zayn will see him curled in on himself like a dying person, and while that’s not  _inaccurate_ it’s likely to invite either teasing or concern. Louis isn’t up to either right now.

His joggers are a bit big on him—he refuses to think about why—and they cover nearly all of his feet, so he’s acutely aware of how much the fabric is dragging on the carpet as he shuffles himself to the front door. Louis has died. Louis is a zombie. It’s the only explanation for the way he’s rotting inside.

He flicks the lock and twists the handle, schooling his face into a look that’s more “having a bad day” and less “contemplating self-harm” as he swings the door in.

“Oh.” It’s not voluntary, a surprised little word punched out of him and so folded in sadness that it’s nearly inaudible.

Harry must hear it anyway. “Oh,” he echoes, eyes rimmed in red where he stands in the doorway. “Oh, Louis—I’m—”

Louis connects their chests and falls into Harry’s consuming embrace, eyes dampening against his shirt. The smell hits him, familiar antiperspirant and sweat and  _Harry,_ his Harry, his boy.

They’re both crying a little when their eyes meet, red faced and unattractive and crumbling to the floor still clinging to each other.

“I didn’t mean it,” Harry rushes as he settles with Louis half in his lap, “ _any_ of it, Louis, I swear I could never regret being with you—fuck,  _fuck_ what I thought I wanted when I was younger, I’ve got _you_  and you’ve always been better than any plan—”

“I know you’d never cheat on me,” Louis babbles,  speech thick, “I know you’d never do anything to hurt me on purpose,  _God,_ Harry, I swear you’re the thing I believe in most, and I’m so proud of you always—”

“I love you,” Harry tells him. “I’ve loved you since I saw you in that tent at Leeds, I’ve loved you every day since.” He’s the embodiment of remorse there on the dirty entryway rug, nose shiny-red and eyes vividly honest.

“I’m gonna love you forever,” Louis says. “I’m--I realized, after I--it's forever."

Harry lets out a strangled, relieved laugh. "Me too," he vows. "For me too, it's. I brought you something."

Already shaking his head, Louis pulls back a little. "You didn't need to--"

Harry grabs them from the floor, thrusting them between the pair. They're a little trampled from when the two sank to the ground, but the smell is unmistakable.

"You fucking sap," Louis chokes, fingers delicate on the bruised petals. "You  _lunatic_."

Harry crushes him back to his chest, the fat bouquet of lilacs further destroyed by the action. "It was all I could think of to explain," he says.

Louis doesn't care that the flowers-- _their_  flower, however randomly that came about--aren't going to last the night. How could he, when he's feeling the cracks in his heart fill in with gold. He does care about Harry's opaque statement, however, wants to reach inside the boy and make him bare every thought he's kept locked away from Louis for months now.

It can't all happen at once. "What do you mean?" he asks, starting from where he is.

Harry breathes into Louis' neck, long inhales like he's trying to rememorize the smell. "I looked it up on the plane," he says slowly. "Had a lot of time, was trying to--like--when you didn't answer," his voice pitches upward, tears trembling on his lashes, "I thought you might just. Refuse to see me."

Louis feels chalk-pale and just as brittle. "Curly."

"I know," Harry placates. "I was only panicking, trying to come up with, like, a scheme. For what I'd do to convince you to see me."

Against reason, Louis is...charmed. "Okay." 

It's a testament to their bond that Harry picks up on the slightest amused shiver under Louis' words, meets it with the ghost of a grin. "At first I was gonna go really over-the-top, you know, skywriting or summat."

"You were not," Louis laughs, still runny-nosed and with  a tired heart, but real and true. 

"Probably not, no," Harry admits. "I realized. Well. A lot of things, because that's a bloody long flight and I couldn't sleep for a minute of it--" 

Louis hums his sympathy, adjusting them a little so he can stay in Harry's lap without risking circulation to any of their limbs.

"--that you didn't want--showy. You didn't want the flash or excess or...any of it." He sounds like he's apologizing when he says, "That was always me. Those were the stars in  _my_  eyes."

He's not done, even if he does pause for a long time, looking at Louis. It's a clear, thoughtful look. It glows amber-green with the light of the hall.

Louis doesn't let his gaze waver, lets Harry read the exhaustion and grief and stress in him. Sees it echoed in Harry. 

Vows to do better.

"It took me long enough to realize that I'm almost embarrassed to admit it," Harry says after a long moment, "but I never realized fully before that we see things differently. Not--" Louis's cocking an eyebrow, surprised by the conversation's turn, "not bad-different, we're clearly still incredibly compatible, but. Those stars in my eyes? You don't have that problem." Harry bites at his bottom lip, seemingly determined to make it make sense. "You don't have stars. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I figured it out--you have flowers." 

"Flowers," Louis repeats softly. He lowers his gaze to Harry's collarbone, delicate where it's exposed by his plaid shirt. He brings a hand up to trace the line of it. God, he's missed him. 

"Lilies," Harry says fervently, clasping Louis' wandering hand in his own. "Roses, tulips, marigolds,  _dandelions_." He kisses Louis' knuckle. "You've got this--breathtakingly poetic way of seeing things, but you're so  _gentle_  about it, so thoughtful. With everything that's happened in the last year, I--failed to realize how rough it all must have been for you. You're so," Harry clears his throat. Louis' own is a bit tight. "You're so soft, Lou, even though you're strong and brilliant and sharp, you're  _soft_. And I didn't...honor that correctly. Not how you deserve." Harry shakes his head. "Did you know--I looked it up, when I realized you didn't want flashy or outrageous, you just wanted  _real_ \--did you know lilacs, purple lilacs, they mean first love?" 

Louis' breath leaves him. He shakes his head.

"They do," Harry tells him. His hands migrate to the sides of Louis' face. "They mean the first feelings of love, and it was like--it clicked. Of  _course_  they do. I'd never once thought about them before I met you."

"So that's why the bouquet," Louis finishes. "Because I've got flowers in my eyes and I'm your--your first love."

"First," Harry repeats, "last. Only." 

It's so simple, when he says it like that. "I realized some stuff too," Louis says. His voice is a bit raspy from being silent for so long, always a rarity in his case, but he's heard Harry's piece now and it's warming him up on the inside, making his scattered, miserable thoughts collude into something useful. "I realized that we--we got such a beautiful, like, magic start," he laughs a little, thinking back on that weekend, a dream lit on fire, "that we never planned for the real shit."

Harry nods, mumbling  _the real shit_  like it's a label he's been grasping for.

"The really real shitty shit," Louis adds. "Most couples don't go through what we went through, right from the start. We met and, and before I knew it you were recording a music video and packing a bag. We hadn't..." he shakes his head, kissing the pained pinch of Harry's brow until it relaxes. "It's alright, love," he soothes. "We're just talking it through."

"I know," Harry mutters pitifully, nuzzling Louis' throat while he tries to be adult about it all. "I just hate--augh. Continue. Please."

"We hadn't even had time to find our rhythm together, really, and suddenly we were doing long-distance and your face was in the rags." Louis doesn't say it with any accusation, trusts Harry fully to know what he means.

And he might, but he still breathes out, "I'm sorry."

Louis shakes his head, shifting one of his legs. Maybe they should move this conversation to the couch, or the bed, or somewhere that isn't the floor, but he's almost done with his impromptu speech anyway. "What I'm saying," he says slowly, deliberately, "is that there's nothing to be sorry for. I mean we both--uh, things were said," he allows quietly, "but mostly we just...got swept away, a little bit. First love. Stars in our eyes. Flowers." 

Harry is jet-lagged and probably hungry and assuredly suffering a hangover of emotion, same as Louis, but he still looks fully intent on an answer when he asks, "Do you still want it?"

Louis has the smell of lilacs clinging to his skin. "Said it yourself," he says, hand on the back of Harry's head. "First, last, only."

"Sounds like you're talking about a security deposit," Harry mumbles, but there's something like peace slackening his face.

"Sounds like  _you're_  making a bad innuendo," Louis rejoins, grappling up onto his feet so he can guide Harry up and get them tucked into bed.

They sleep like the dead that night, not an inch of space between them. 

It's not that all is forgiven. It's just that it can be, if they work harder for it. Give it their all.

 

It takes a day and then another, some planning and compromise and not a few tears, but it comes down to this: Louis is finishing his final semester of uni, and then Harry is flying him out for his tour. It's something Louis' been deadest against for ages, is the thing, the expense of it making his palms sweat. He always feels shaky and useless and oddly timid when he thinks about how much Harry's given him, even before raw finances come into it, how much he  _owes_  to the boy with the world increasingly at his disposal.

Harry just whispers about how there can't be debts between them, how impossible the notion is when they're one soul in two bodies.

Which, naturally Louis has to call him a  _soppy twit_ for saying, but it's decided, anyway, and that's that.

They write up a real, actual list of things they'll do to keep themselves functional until then, and how often they'll do them. Scheduling for Skype dates. Catching each other up on their days in full, not just the easy parts. Learning to vocalize fears and insecurities so that they don't turn to poison in their blood. It's an end to call-you-when-I-can and tell-you-if-I-remember and playing at normal when things aren't. 

Because there's nothing normal about the situation. Harry tells Louis about--everything, all the stuff he bit back and buried when they caught each other for a quick goodnight/good morning call that left their hearts heavy with longing.

When he tells Louis about the diet, Louis says, "That's disgusting."

When he tells Louis about the fake girlfriend, Louis says, "Oh," and then nothing.

So it's rough, the conversation, uneven and with many breaks to lick their wounds and sort their words and fall back into each other, lips trailing warm over fingertips. Zayn does hug Harry when he sees him, but mostly he slinks around their conversations like a wary cat.

At some point, when Harry and Louis are sitting across from each other on the small sofa, mugs of tea warm in their hands, Louis comments on how he never realized how much work goes into being in love.

"It's like a..." he licks over his teeth, gazing upward as he sorts it out, "...like a verb, I think. Love. Because you have to  _do_  it. Like, it's a conscious choice, innit?" He swallows down a mouthful of tea to shut himself up.

"Yeah," Harry says softly. "You're kinda brilliant, Lou."

Unable to come up with a snarky enough reply, Louis leverages forward to kiss him.

Harry has to leave the bubble of hard-won love and comfort eventually, gushing about the amazing job his assistant manager did giving him this break at all, but they're both sniffling when Harry kisses him goodbye and steps out of the car, security guiding him to one of the airport's private entrances. 

Louis cries on the way home and texts Harry all through his layovers. They have their first scheduled Skype date the next day, and it's not awkward or stilted the way Louis thought planned communication might be. It's effortless, mostly, Harry angling his laptop so Louis can watch him make one of his vile, mandated protein shakes and laugh when he gets it down his shirt because he's giggling at Louis' jokes.

They work at it. Some weeks are harder than others. Harry has Liam alert Louis to when he can expect to see his boyfriend kissing a woman on the covers of tabloids--they've actually started texting quite freely, Liam and he, the boy's proper deadpan funny and a genius at soothing Louis' random insecurities about Harry besides--and Louis warns Harry when he's about to be muted on Skype so that Louis can get the prep for his last round of exams done without losing the feeling of Harry near him.

Phone sex is a godsend, it turns out, though Louis does wonder if there's something worrying about how frequently they just end up rehashing what they were both thinking during various other times they've had sex. 

It gets them off, though, and the feeling of intimacy is undeniable, hearing it all from Harry's perspective. He'll go with it.

By the time he gets to Los Angeles (Zayn in tow, though he's already bitching about the heat and threatening to go back before his flight in a week), he's feeling a happy thrum at the idea of seeing Harry in this strange, too-bright city. He thought he'd only ever feel a coil of dread, the tension that had built over months before they'd woken from the dream that was going to destroy them.

Before they knew they could handle it.

It's their third day and, having finally come up for air out of Harry's bedroom, Louis is settled into Harry's side on some posh, closed-off patio at a restaurant where they won't be spotted. Louis is sure all the sneaking about gets old rather quickly, but he and Harry have started humming spy music whenever they enter or exit through side-doors, and it's injected some fun into proceedings, at least.

The industry and all its trappings are shit, mostly. They work around it.

Zayn is on the other side of the low table, sprawling on the bench's quashy green cushions as they wait for the last member of their group to show. It's strange and fitting, Louis thinks, that the three of them should find themselves so far from home and still exactly where they started: sun drenched and together.

"Will I recognize him by his horn-rimmed glasses and prim outfit and rigid posture and harsh maroon lippy?" Louis asks, fidgeting with anticipation.

Harry runs his nails softly over the top of Louis' thigh, placating. "He's my assistant manager, not...a school marm from an 80's movie about an enchanted boarding school, or something," he says, meandering verbally.

"Well he's not exactly shaped like a text message, is he," Louis comments mildly. "We don't all get to see him every day." 

"He'll be here in a minute," Harry tells him, sipping at his elderflower-infused water. With his Ray Bans and well-fitted Ramones shirt and elegant curls and the backdrop of LA behind him, he looks every inch a celebrity. Louis will admit to still being occasionally star-struck by his boyfriend. "Like literally a minute, he's obsessively punctual."

"Oh, he must  _love_  you, then," Zayn drawls. His head is tipped up toward the sun, basking in it.

Harry opens the oversized mouth he's actually, Louis has noticed, beginning to grow into, likely to accuse Zayn of having a social disease that makes him permanently late everywhere and rant about how that's not Harry's fault, is it, only his eyes catch on something and he smiles.

Louis leans to see the man striding up to them from the normal entrance behind Zayn while Harry bleats "Liaaaaaaam!" and stands. He and Liam embrace for a moment before Louis is being introduced.

"And Lou, this is--"

"What made you so uncomfortable about  _Hercules_?" Liam interrupts, seamlessly picking up the text conversation Louis and he had been having the night before.

Well. Before Harry had come back into the bedroom and crawled on top of him, anyway.

"The animation style was weird!" Louis whines. "Why did everyone's joints have to look like that? It was a weird film!" He's vaguely aware of the perplexed look Harry and Zayn are exchanging, but he trusts them to entertain themselves while he sets this straight with Liam.

Liam only makes a sort of grunting disagreeable noise, though, scratching at his dark stubble. He has warm brown eyes that put Louis thoroughly at ease, something about his posture radiating capability. 

He's also got some really immaculately done tattoos, which is always a plus.

Zayn agrees. "That's a really gorgeous feather, man," he says, mid-handshake and staring down at Liam's inner forearm.

"Cool, right? It's newer." Liam traces a fond finger over it as they all sit again, fumbling at thin card stock menus.

"Got some wings, myself," Zayn informs him. He barely has to tug at his vest to expose the gaudy set, massive cherry-red lipstick stain tattooed dead center. Louis loves it and loathes it in equal measure; all his own work is pretty tame in comparison, though him and Harry have been circling the idea of getting something together for a while. 

Which. Lacing your skin with the presence of another person, forever. It's pretty big stuff. Louis tries not to be over eager for it and sometimes almost succeeds.

"Birds are cool," Harry comments absently, pensive gaze on Zayn's tattoo. "Wings are really cool. The structure of them is like...very, very intricate."

"Well, and they're super interdependent," Liam says, taking to the topic with a charming buoyancy that likely means he'd be game to chatter about pretty much anything. Louis smiles, fond of everyone here and so inordinately happy he could burst into song, or flames, or champagne. 

"Interdependent how?" he asks.

"Well it's like...if you imagine a wheel," Liam tries, thanking the waitress when she brings him water, "and it lost a spoke, it wouldn't be as efficient because the tension on it would be...off. Or something." He shrugs with both shoulders, definitely a little bit prim.

"Spokes," Zayn repeats slowly, gaze distant. Louis watches him lick over his lip and turn to move fully face Liam, like a complete weirdo.

"Every feather is kind of like a spoke in a wheel," Liam summarizes. He traces his feather tattoo again. It really is very well-done. "So funny how mechanics echo nature, you know? Even unintentionally."

"So as you can see," says Harry. "Liam is easily the best person I know and about a thousand percent more  intelligent than any of us."

Louis and Zayn both squawk with no small amount of indignation as Harry laughs and Liam smiles, flushing. 

Sometimes, Louis dreams about flashes of light in music-drugged crowds, elation flooding his veins as he sings with his eyes locked on shimmering green. He dreams of fervent promises whispered into untouched skin, delirious want mixed with the throbbing of his heart as it gushes love wetly into someone else's chest. He dreams of the curl of smoke hot on his tongue and a damp field and delicate flowers nestled in dark curls.

Then he wakes up, and somehow, it's better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, you person. Hope I made it worth your time. Come say hi at my tumblr, protagonist-m.


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